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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


SUSY 


A   STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS 


BY 

BRET   HARTE 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

Cbe  finier?iDe  pre$s,  Cambridge 

1893 


Copyright,  1892, 
BY  BRET  HARTE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


SUSY. 


CHAPTER   I. 

WHERE  the  San  Leandro  turnpike 
stretches  its  dusty,  hot,  and  interminable 
length  along  the  valley,  at  a  point  where  the 
heat  and  dust  have  become  intolerable,  the 
monotonous  expanse  of  wild  oats  on  either 
side  illimitable,  and  the  distant  horizon  ap 
parently  remoter  than  ever,  it  suddenly  slips 
between  a  stunted  thicket  or  hedge  of  "  scrub 
oaks,"  which  until  that  moment  had  been 
undistinguishable  above  the  long,  misty, 
quivering  level  of  the  grain.  The  thicket 
rising  gradually  in*,heig.ht,  but  with  a  regu 
lar  slope  whose  •  gradient  *had  been  deter 
mined  by  centuries  of  western  trade  winds, 
presently  becomes  a  fair  wood  of  live-oak, 
and  a  few  hundred  yards  further  at  last  as 
sumes  the  aspect  of  a  primeval  forest.  A 
delicious  coolness  fills  the  air ;  the  long, 
shadowy  aisles  greet  the  aching  eye  with  a 

260321 


2  SUSY: 

soothing  twilight;  the  murmur  of  unseen 
brooks  is  heard,  and,  by  a  strange  irony,  the 
enormous,  widely-spaced  stacks  of  wild  oats 
are  replaced  by  a  carpet  of  tiny-leaved 
mosses  and  chickweed  at  the  roots  of  trees, 
and  the  minutest  clover  in  more  open  spaces. 
The  baked  and  cracked  adobe  soil  of  the 
now  vanished  plains  is  exchanged  for  a 
heavy  red  mineral  dust  and  gravel,  rocks 
and  boulders  make  their  appearance,  and  at 
times  the  road  is  crossed  by  the  white  veins 
of  quartz.  It  is  still  the  San  Leandro  turn 
pike,  —  a  few  miles  later  to  rise  from  this 
Canada  into  the  upper  plains  again,  —  but 
it  is  also  the  actual  gateway  and  avenue  to 
the  Robles  Rancho.  When  the  departing 
visitors  of  Judge  Peyton,  now  owner  of  the 
rancho,  reach  the  outer  plains  again,  after 
twenty  minutes'  drive  from  the  house,  the 
Canada,  rancho,  and  avenue  have  as  com 
pletely  disappeared  from  view  as  if  they  had 
been  swallowed  up  in  the  plain. 

A  cross  road  from  the  turnpike  is  the 
usual  approach  to  the  casa  or  mansion,  —  a 
long,  low  quadrangle  of  brown  adobe  wall 
in  a  bare  but  gently  sloping  eminence.  And 
here  a  second  surprise  meets  the  stranger. 
He  seems  to  have  emerged  from  the  forest 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  3 

upon  another  illimitable  plain,  but  one 
utterly  trackless,  wild,  and  desolate.  It  is, 
however,  only  a  lower  terrace  of  the  same 
valley,  and,  in  fact,  comprises  the  three 
square  leagues  of  the  Robles  Rancho.  Un 
cultivated  and  savage  as  it  appears,  given 
over  to  wild  cattle  and  horses  that  sometimes 
sweep  in  frightened  bands  around  the  very 
casa  itself,  the  long  south  wall  of  the  corral 
embraces  an  orchard  of  gnarled  pear-trees, 
an  old  vineyard,  and  a  venerable  garden 
of  olives  and  oranges.  A  manor,  formerly 
granted  by  Charles  V.  to  Don  Vincente 
Robles,  of  Andalusia,  of  pious  and  ascetic 
memory,  it  had  commended  itself  to  Judge 
Peyton,  of  Kentucky,  a  modern  heretic 
pioneer  of  bookish  tastes  and  secluded  hab 
its,  who  had  bought  it  of  Don  Vincente 's 
descendants.  Here  Judge  Peyton  seemed 
to  have  realized  his  idea  of  a  perfect  cli 
mate,  and  a  retirement,  half -studious,  half- 
active,  with  something  of  the  seignior alty  of 
the  old  slaveholder  that  he  had  been.  Here, 
too,  he  had  seen  the  hope  of  restoring  his 
wife's  health  —  for  which  he  had  under 
taken  the  overland  emigration  —  more 
than  fulfilled  in  Mrs.  Peyton's  improved 
physical  condition,  albeit  at  the  expense, 


4  SUSY: 

perhaps,  of  some  of  the  languorous  graces 
of  ailing  American  wifehood. 

It  was  with  a  curious  recognition  of  this 
latter  fact  that  Judge  Peyton  watched  his 
wife  crossing  the  patio  or  courtyard  with 
her  arm  around  the  neck  of  her  adopted 
daughter  "Suzette."  A  sudden  memory 
crossed  his  mind  of  the  first  day  that  he 
had  seen  them  together,  —  the  day  that  he 
had  brought  the  child  and  her  boy -compan 
ion —  two  estrays  from  an  emigrant  train 
on  the  plains  —  to  his  wife  in  camp.  Cer 
tainly  Mrs.  Peyton  was  stouter  and  stronger 
fibred;  the  wonderful  Calif ornian  climate 
had  materialized  her  figure,  as  it  had  their 
Eastern  fruits  and  flowers,  but  it  was 
stranger  that  "Susy"  —  the  child  of  home 
lier  frontier  blood  and  parentage,  whose 
wholesome  peasant  plumpness  had  at  first 
attracted  them  —  should  have  grown  thinner 
and  more  graceful,  and  even  seemed  to  have 
gained  the  delicacy  his  wife  had  lost.  Six 
years  had  imperceptibly  wrought  this 
change;  it  had  never  struck  him  before  so 
forcibly  as  on  this  day  of  Susy's  return  from 
the  convent  school  at  Santa  Clara  for  the 
holidays. 

The  woman  and  child  had  reached  the 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  5 

broad  veranda  which,  on  one  side  of  the 
patio,  replaced  the  old  Spanish  corridor. 
It  was  the  single  modern  innovation  that 
Peyton  had  allowed  himself  when  he  had 
broken  the  quadrangular  symmetry  of  the 
old  house  with  a  wooden  "annexe  "  or  addi 
tion  beyond  the  walls.  It  made  a  pleasant 
lounging-place,  shadowed  from  the  hot  mid 
day  sun  by  sloping  roofs  and  awnings,  and 
sheltered  from  the  boisterous  afternoon 
trade  winds  by  the  opposite  side  of  the 
court.  But  Susy  did  not  seem  inclined  to 
linger  there  long  that  morning,  in  spite  of 
Mrs.  Peyton's  evident  desire  for  a  maternal 
tete-a-tete.  The  nervous  preoccupation  and 
capricious  ennui  of  an  indulged  child  showed 
in  her  pretty  but  discontented  face,  and 
knit  her  curved  eyebrows,  and  Peyton  saw 
a  look  of  pain  pass  over  his  wife's  face  as 
the  young  girl  suddenly  and  half -laughingly 
broke  away  and  fluttered  off  towards  the  old 
garden. 

Mrs.  Peyton  looked  up  and  caught  her 
husband's  eye. 

UI  am  afraid  Susy  finds  it  more  dull  here 
every  time  she  returns,"  she  said,  with  an 
apologetic  smile.  "I  am  glad  she  has  in 
vited  one  of  her  school  friends  to  come  for 


6  SUSY: 

a  visit  to-morrow.  You  know,  yourself, 
John,"  she  added,  with  a  slight  partisan 
attitude,  "that  the  lonely  old  house  and 
wild  plain  are  not  particularly  lively  for 
young  people,  however  much  they  may  suit 
your  ways." 

"It  certainly  must  be  dull  if  she  can't 
stand  it  for  three  weeks  in  the  year,"  said 
her  husband  dryly.  "But  we  really  cannot 
open  the  San  Francisco  house  for  her  sum 
mer  vacation,  nor  can  we  move  from  the 
rancho  to  a  more  fashionable  locality.  Be 
sides,  it  will  do  her  good  to  run  wild  here. 
I  can  remember  when  she  was  n't  so  fastid 
ious.  In  fact,  I  was  thinking  just  now  how 
changed  she  was  from  the  day  when  we 
picked  her  up  "  — 

"How  often  am  I  to  remind  you,  John," 
interrupted  the  lady,  with  some  impatience, 
"that  we  agreed  never  to  speak  of  her  past, 
or  even  to  think  of  her  as  anything  but  our 
own  child.  You  know  how  it  pains  me! 
And  the  poor  dear  herself  has  forgotten  it, 
and  thinks  of  us  only  as  her  own  parents. 
I  really  believe  that  if  that  wretched  father 
and  mother  of  hers  had  not  been  killed  by 
the  Indians,  or  were  to  come  to  life  again, 
she  would  neither  know  them  nor  case  for 


A  STOJIY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  7 

them.  I  mean,  of  course,  John,"  she  said, 
averting  her  eyes  from  a  slightly  cynical 
smile  on  her  husband's  face,  "that  it 's  only 
natural  for  young  children  to  be  forgetful, 
and  ready  to  take  new  impressions." 

"And  as  long,  dear,  as  we  are  not  the 
subjects  of  this  youthful  forgetfulness,  and 
she  is  n't  really  finding  us  as  stupid  as  the 
rancho,"  replied  her  husband  cheerfully,  "  I 
suppose  we  must  n't  complain." 

"John, how  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?" 
said  Mrs.  Peyton  impatiently.  "But  I 
have  no  fear  of  that,"  she  added,  with  a 
slightly  ostentatious  confidence.  "I  only 
wish  I  was  as  sure  "  — 

"Of  what?" 

"Of  nothing  happening  that  could  take 
her  from  us.  I  do  not  mean  death,  John, 
—  like  our  first  little  one.  That  does  not 
happen  to  one  twice;  but  I  sometimes 
dread  "  — 

"What?  She's  only  fifteen,  and  it's 
rather  early  to  think  about  the  only  other 
inevitable  separation,  —  marriage.  Come, 
Ally,  this  is  mere  fancy.  She  has  been 
given  up  to  us  by  her  family,  —  at  least,  by 
all  that  we  know  are  left  of  them.  I  have 
legally  adopted  her.  If  I  have  not  made 


8  SUSY: 

her  my  heiress,  it  is  because  I  prefer  to 
leave  everything  to  you,  and  I  would  rather 
she  should  know  that  she  was  dependent 
upon  you  for  the  future  than  upon  me." 

"And  I  can  make  a  will  in  her  favor  if  I 
want  to?"  said  Mrs.  Peyton  quickly. 

"Always,"  responded  her  husband  smil 
ingly;  "but  you  have  ample  time  to  think 
of  that,  I  trust.  Meanwhile  I  have  some 
news  for  you  which  may  make  Susy's  visit 
to  the  rancho  this  time  less  dull  to  her. 
You  remember  Clarence  Brant,  the  boy 
who  was  with  her  when  we  picked  her  up, 
and  who  really  saved  her  life?" 
4  "No,  I  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton  pet 
tishly,  "nor  do  I  want  to!  You  know, 
John,  how  distasteful  and  unpleasant  it  is 
for  me  to  have  those  dreary,  petty,  and  vul 
gar  details  of  the  poor  child's  past  life  re 
called,  and,  thank  Heaven,  I  have  forgotten 
them  except  when  you  choose  to  drag  them 
before  me.  You  agreed,  long  ago,  that  we 
were  never  to  talk  of  the  Indian  massacre  of 
her  parents,  so  that  we  could  also  ignore  it 
before  her;  then  why  do  you  talk  of  her 
vulgar  friends,  who  are  just  as  unpleasant? 
Please  let  us  drop  the  past." 

"Willingly,  my  dear;  but,  unfortunately, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  9 

we  cannot  make  others  do  it.  And  this  is 
a  case  in  point.  It  appears  that  this  boy, 
whom  we  brought  to  Sacramento  to  deliver 
to  a  relative  "  — 

"And  who  was  a  wicked  little  impostor, 
—  you  remember  that  yourself,  John,  for 
he  said  that  he  was  the  son  of  Colonel 
Brant,  and  that  he  was  dead;  and  you 
know,  and  my  brother  Harry  knew,  that 
Colonel  Brant  was  alive  all  the  time,  and 
that  he  was  lying,  and  Colonel  Brant  was 
not  his  father,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Peyton  im 
patiently. 

"As  it  seems  you  do  remember  that 
much,"  said  Peyton  dryly,  "it  is  only  just 
to  him  that  I  should  tell  you  that  it  appears 
that  he  was  not  an  impostor.  His  story  was 
true.  I  have  just  learned  that  Colonel 
Brant  was  actually  his  father,  but  had  con 
cealed  his  lawless  life  here,  as  well  as  his 
identity,  from  the  boy.  He  was  really  that 
vague  relative  to  whom  Clarence  was  con 
fided,  and  under  that  disguise  he  afterwards 
protected  the  boy,  had  him  carefully  edu 
cated  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  San  Jose, 
and,  dying  two  years  ago  in  that  filibuster 
raid  in  Mexico,  left  him  a  considerable  for 
tune." 


10  SUSY: 

"And  what  has  he  to  do  with  Susy's  holi 
days?  "  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  uneasy 
quickness.  "John,  you  surely  cannot  ex 
pect  her  ever  to  meet  this  common  creature 
again,  with  his  vulgar  ways.  His  wretched 
associates  like  that  Jim  Hooker,  and,  as 
you  yourself  admit,  the  blood  of  an  assassin, 
duelist,  and  —  Heaven  knows  what  kind 
of  a  pirate  his  father  wasn't  at  the  last  — 
in  his  veins!  You  don't  believe  that  a  lad 
of  this  type,  however  much  of  his  father's 
ill-gotten  money  he  may  have,  can  be  fit 
company  for  your  daughter?  You  never 
could  have  thought  of  inviting  him  here?" 

"I'm  afraid  that's  exactly  what  I  have 
done,  Ally,"  said  the  smiling  but  unmoved 
Peyton;  "but  I'm  still  more  afraid  that 
your  conception  of  his  present  condition  is 
an  unfair  one,  like  your  remembrance  of 
his  past.  Father  Sobriente,  whom  I  met 
at  San  Jose  yesterday,  says  he  is  very  in 
telligent,  and  thoroughly  educated,  with 
charming  manners  and  refined  tastes.  His 
father's  money,  which  they  say  was  an 
investment  for  him  in  Carson's  Bank  five 
years  ago,  is  as  good  as  any  one's,  and  his 
father's  blood  won't  hurt  him  in  California 
or  the  Southwest.  At  least,  he  is  received 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  11 

everywhere,  and  Don  Juan  Robinson  was  his 
guardian.  Indeed,  as  far  as  social  status 
goes,  it  might  be  a  serious  question  if  the 
actual  daughter  of  the  late  John  Silsbee,  of 
Pike  County,  and  the  adopted  child  of  John 
Peyton  was  in  the  least  his  superior.  As 
Father  Sobriente  evidently  knew  Clarence's 
former  companionship  with  Susy  and  her 
parents,  it  would  be  hardly  politic  for  us  to 
ignore  it  or  seem  to  be  ashamed  of  it.  So 
I  intrusted  Sobriente  with  an  invitation  to 
young  Brant  on  the  spot." 

Mrs.  Peyton's  impatience,  indignation, 
and  opposition,  which  had  successively 
given  way  before  her  husband's  quiet,  mas 
terful  good  humor,  here  took  the  form  of 
a  neurotic  fatalism.  She  shook  her  head 
with  superstitious  resignation. 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  John,  that  I  always 
had  a  dread  of  something  coming  "  — 

"But  if  it  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  shy 
young  lad,  I  see  nothing  singularly  porten 
tous  in  it.  They  have  not  met  since  they 
were  quite  small ;  their  tastes  have  changed ; 
if  they  don't  quarrel  and  fight  they  may  be 
equally  bored  with  each  other.  Yet  until 
then,  in  one  way  or  another,  Clarence  will 
occupy  the  young  lady's  vacant  caprice,  and 


12  SUSY: 

her  school  friend,  Mary  Rogers,  will  be 
here,  you  know,  to  divide  his  attentions, 
and,"  added  Peyton,  with  mock  solemnity, 
"preserve  the  interest  of  strict  propriety. 
Shall  I  break  it  to  her,  — or  will  you?  " 

"No, — yes."  hesitated  Mrs.  Peyton; 
"perhaps  I  had  better." 

"Very  well,  I  leave  his  character  in  your 
hands;  only  don't  prejudice  her  into  a  ro 
mantic  fancy  for  him."  And  Judge  Peyton 
lounged  smilingly  away. 

Then  two  little  tears  forced  themselves 
from  Mrs.  Peyton's  eyes.  Again  she  saw 
that  prospect  of  uninterrupted  companion 
ship  with  Susy,  upon  which  each  successive 
year  she  had  built  so  many  maternal  hopes 
and  confidences,  fade  away  before  her.  She 
dreaded  the  coming  of  Susy's  school  friend, 
who  shared  her  daughter's  present  thoughts 
and  intimacy,  although  she  had  herself  in 
vited  her  in  a  more  desperate  dread  of  the 
child's  abstracted,  discontented  eyes;  she 
dreaded  the  advent  of  the  boy  who  had 
shared  Susy's  early  life  before  she  knew 
her ;  she  dreaded  the  ordeal  of  breaking  the 
news  and  perhaps  seeing  that  pretty  anima 
tion  spring  into  her  eyes,  which  she  had  be 
gun  to  believe  no  solicitude  or  tenderness  of 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  13 

her  own  ever  again  awakened,  —  and  yet 
she  dreaded  still  more  that  her  husband 
should  see  it  too.  For  the  love  of  this  re- 
created  woman,  although  not  entirely  mate 
rialized  with  her  changed  fibre,  had  never 
theless  become  a  coarser  selfishness  fostered 
by  her  loneliness  and  limited  experience. 
The  maternal  yearning  left  unsatisfied  by 
the  loss  of  her  first-born  had  never  been 
filled  by  Susy's  thoughtless  acceptance  of 
it;  she  had  been  led  astray  by  the  child's 
easy  transference  of  dependence  and  the 
forgetfulness  of  youth,  and  was  only  now 
dimly  conscious  of  finding  herself  face  to 
face  with  an  alien  nature. 

She  started  to  her  feet  and  followed  the 
direction  that  Susy  had  taken.  For  a  mo 
ment  she  had  to  front  the  afternoon  trade 
wind  which  chilled  her  as  it  swept  the  plain 
beyond  the  gateway,  but  was  stopped  by  the 
adobe  wall,  above  whose  shelter  the  stunted 
treetops  —  through  years  of  exposure  — 
slanted  as  if  trimmed  by  gigantic  shears. 
At  first,  looking  down  the  venerable  alley  of 
fantastic,  knotted  shapes,  she  saw  no  trace 
of  Susy.  But  half  way  down  the  gleam  of 
a  white  skirt  against  a  thicket  of  dark  olives 
showed  her  the  young  girl  sitting  on  a  bench 


14  SUSY: 

in  a  neglected  arbor.  In  the  midst  of  this 
formal  and  faded  pageantry  she  looked 
charmingly  fresh,  youthful,  and  pretty;  and 
yet  the  unfortunate  woman  thought  that  her 
attitude  and  expression  at  that  moment  sug 
gested  more  than  her  fifteen  years  of  girl 
hood.  Her  golden  hair  still  hung  unfet 
tered  over  her  straight,  boy -like  back  and 
shoulders;  her  short  skirt  still  showed  her 
childish  feet  and  ankles;  yet  there  seemed 
to  be  some  undefined  maturity  or  a  vague 
womanliness  about  her  that  stung  Mrs. 
Peyton's  heart.  The  child  was  growing 
away  from  her,  too  ! 

"Susy!" 

The  young  girl  raised  her  head  quickly ; 
her  deep  violet  eyes  seemed  also  to  leap  with 
a  sudden  suspicion,  and  with  a  half -mechan 
ical,  secretive  movement,  that  might  have 
been  only  a  schoolgirl's  instinct,  her  right 
hand  had  slipped  a  paper  on  which  she 
was  scribbling  between  the  leaves  of  her 
book.  Yet  the  next  moment,  even  while 
looking  interrogatively  at  her  mother,  she 
withdrew  the  paper  quietly,  tore  it  up 
into  small  pieces,  and  threw  them  on  the 
ground. 

But   Mrs.  Peyton   was   too  preoccupied 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  15 

with  her  news  to  notice  the  circumstance, 
and  too  nervous  in  her  haste  to  be  tactful. 
"Susy,  your  father  has  invited  that  boy, 
Clarence  Brant,  —  you  know  that  creature 
we  picked  up  and  assisted  on  the  plains, 
when  you  were  a  mere  baby,  —  to  come  down 
here  and  make  us  a  visit." 

Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beating  as  she 
gazed  breathlessly  at  the  girl.  But  Susy's 
face,  unchanged  except  for  the  alert,  ques 
tioning  eyes,  remained  fixed  for  a  moment ; 
then  a  childish  smile  of  wonder  opened  her 
small  red  mouth,  expanded  it  slightly  as  she 
said  simply :  — 

"  Lor,  mar !     He  has  n't,  really !  " 

Inexpressibly,  yet  unreasonably  reassured, 
Mrs.  Peyton  hurriedly  recounted  her  hus 
band's  story  of  Clarence's  fortune,  and  was 
even  joyfully  surprised  into  some  fairness 
of  statement. 

"But  you  don't  remember  him  much,  do 
you,  dear?  It  was  so  long  ago,  and  —  you 
are  quite  a  young  lady  now,"  she  added 
eagerly. 

The  open  mouth  was  still  fixed ;  the  won 
dering  smile  would  have  been  idiotic  in  any 
face  less  dimpled,  rosy,  and  piquant  than 
Susy's.  After  a  slight  gasp,  as  if  in  still 


16  SUSY: 

incredulous  and  partly  reminiscent  preoccu 
pation,  she  said  without  replying :  — 

"How  funny!     When  is  he  coming?  " 

"Day  after  to-morrow,"  returned  Mrs. 
Peyton,  with  a  contented  smile. 

"And  Mary  Kogers  will  be  here,  too.  It 
will  be  real  fun  for  her." 

Mrs.  Peyton  was  more  than  reassured. 
Half  ashamed  of  her  jealous  fears,  she  drew 
Susy's  golden  head  towards  her  and  kissed 
it.  And  the  young  girl,  still  reminiscent, 
with  smilingly  abstracted  toleration,  re 
turned  the  caress. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  17 


CHAPTER    II. 

IT  was  not  thought  inconsistent  with 
Susy's  capriciousness  that  she  should  declare 
her  intention  the  next  morning  of  driving 
her  pony  buggy  to  Santa  Inez  to  anticipate 
the  stage-coach  and  fetch  Mary  Rogers  from 
the  station.  Mrs.  Peyton,  as  usual,  sup 
ported  the  young  lady's  whim  and  opposed 
her  husband's  objections. 

"  Because  the  stage-coach  happens  to  pass 
our  gate,  John,  it  is  no  reason  why  Susy 
should  n't  drive  her  friend  from  Santa  Inez 
if  she  prefers  it.  It 's  only  seven  miles,  and 
you  can  send  Pedro  to  follow  her  on  horse 
back  to  see  that  she  comes  to  no  harm." 

"But  that  isn't  Pedro's  business,"  said 
Peyton. 

"He  ought  to  be  proud  of  the  privilege," 
returned  the  lady,  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 

Peyton  smiled  grimly,  but  yielded;  and 
when  the  stage-coach  drew  up  the  next  after 
noon  at  the  Santa  Inez  Hotel,  Susy  was 
already  waiting  in  her  pony  carriage  before 


18  SUSY: 

it.  Although  the  susceptible  driver,  ex 
pressman,  and  passengers  generally,  charmed 
with  this  golden-haired  vision,  would  have 
gladly  protracted  the  meeting  of  the  two 
young  friends,  the  transfer  of  Mary  Rogers 
from  the  coach  to  the  carriage  was  effected 
with  considerable  hauteur  and  youthful  dig 
nity  by  Susy.  Even  Mary  Rogers,  two 
years  Susy's  senior,  a  serious  brunette, 
whose  good-humor  did  not,  however,  impair 
her  capacity  for  sentiment,  was  impressed 
and  even  embarrassed  by  her  demeanor ;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  When  they  had  driven 
from  the  hotel  and  were  fairly  hidden  again 
in  the  dust  of  the  outlying  plain,  with  the 
discreet  Pedro  hovering  in  the  distance, 
Susy  dropped  the  reins,  and,  grasping  her 
companion's  arm,  gasped,  in  tones  of  dra 
matic  intensity :  — 

"He's  been  heard  from,  and  is  coming 
here!" 

"Who?" 

A  sickening  sense  that  her  old  confidante 
had  already  lost  touch  with  her  —  they  had 
been  separated  for  nearly  two  weeks  —  might 
have  passed  through  Susy's  mind. 

"Who?"  she  repeated,  with  a  vicious 
shake  of  Mary's  arm,  "why,  Clarencff Brant, 
of  course." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  19 

"No!  "  said  Mary,  vaguely. 

Nevertheless,  Susy  went  on  rapidly,  as  if 
to  neutralize  the  effect  of  her  comrade's 
vacuity. 

"You  never  could  have  imagined  it  ! 
Never!  Even  /,  when  mother  told  me,  I 
thought  I  should  have  fainted,  and  all  would 
have  been  revealed! " 

"But,"  hesitated  the  still  wondering  con 
fidante,  "  I  thought  that  was  all  over  long 
ago.  You  have  n't  seen  him  nor  heard  from 
him  since  that  day  you  met  accidentally  at 
Santa  Clara,  two  years  ago,  have  you?" 

Susy's  eyes  shot  a  blue  ray  of  dark  but 
unutterable  significance  into  Mary's,  and 
then  were  carefully  averted.  Mary  Rogers, 
although  perfectly  satisfied  that  Susy  had 
never  seen  Clarence  since,  nevertheless  in 
stantly  accepted  and  was  even  thrilled  with 
this  artful  suggestion  of  a  clandestine  corre 
spondence.  Such  was  the  simple  faith  of 
youthful  friendship. 

"Mother  knows  nothing  of  it,  of  course, 
and  a  word  from  you  or  him  would  ruin 
everything,"  continued  the  breathless  Susy. 
"That 's  why  I  came  to  fetch  you  and  warn 
you.  You  must  see  him  first,  and  warn 
him  at  any  cost.  If  I  hadn't  run  every 


20  SUSY: 

risk  to  come  here  to-day,  Heaven  knows 
what  might  have  happened !  What  do  you 
think  of  the  ponies,  dear?  They  're  my 
own,  and  the  sweetest !  This  one  's  Susy, 
that  one  Clarence,  —  but  privately,  you 
know.  Before  the  world  and  in  the  stables 
he  's  only  Birdie." 

"But  I  thought  you  wrote  to  me  that  you 
called  them  'Paul  and  Virginie,'"  said 
Mary  doubtfully. 

"I  do,  sometimes,"  said  Susy  calmly. 
"But  one  has  to  learn  to  suppress  one's 
.feelings,  dear!"  Then  quickly,  "I  do  so 
hate  deceit,  don't  you?  Tell  me,  don't  you 
think  deceit  perfectly  hateful?  " 

Without  waiting  for  her  friend's  loyal 
assent,  she  continued  rapidly:  "And  he's 
just  rolling  in  wealth !  and  educated,  papa 
says,  to  the  highest  degree !  " 

"Then,"  began  Mary,  "if  he  's  coming 
with  your  mother's  consent,  and  if  you 
have  n't  quarreled,  and  it  is  not  broken  off, 
I  should  think  you  'd  be  just  delighted." 

But  another  quick  flash  from  Susy's  eyes 
dispersed  these  beatific  visions  of  the  future. 
"  Hush !  "  she  said,  with  suppressed  dramatic 
intensity.  "You  know  not  what  you  say! 
There  's  an  awful  mystery  hangs  over  him. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  21 

Mary  Rogers,"  continued  the  young  girl, 
approaching  her  small  mouth  to  her  confi 
dante's  ear  in  an  appalling  whisper.  "His 
father  was  —  a  pirate  !  Yes  —  lived  a  pi 
rate  and  was  killed  a  pirate !  " 

The  statement,  however,  seemed  to  be 
partly  ineffective.  Mary  Rogers  was  star 
tled  but  not  alarmed,  and  even  protested 
feebly.  "But,"  she  said,  "if  the  father 's 
dead,  what 's  that  to  do  with  Clarence?  He 
was  always  with  your  papa  —  so  you  told 
me,  dear  —  or  other  people,  and  couldn't 
catch  anything  from  his  own  father.  And 
I  'm  sure,  dearest,  he  always  seemed  nice 
and  quiet." 

"Yes,  seemed,"  returned  Susy  darkly, 
"but  that 's  all  you  know  !  It  was  in  his 
blood.  You  know  it  always  is,  —  you  read 
it  in  the  books,  —  you  could  see  it  in  his  eye. 
There  were  times,  my  dear,  when  he  was 
thwarted,  —  when  the  slightest  attention 
from  another  person  to  me  revealed  it!  I 
have  kept  it  to  myself,  —  but  think,  dearest, 
of  the  effects  of  jealousy  on  that  passionate 
nature !  Sometimes  I  tremble  to  look  back 
upon  it." 

Nevertheless,  she  raised  her  hands  and 
threw  back  her  lovely  golden  mane  from  her 


22  SUSY: 

childish  shoulders  with  an  easy,  untroubled 
gesture.  It  was  singular  that  Mary  Rog 
ers,  leaning  back  comfortably  in  the  buggy, 
also  accepted  these  heart-rending  revelations 
with  comfortably  knitted  brows  and  luxuri 
ously  contented  concern.  If  she  found  it 
difficult  to  recognize  in  the  picture  just 
drawn  by  Susy  the  quiet,  gentle,  and  sadly 
reserved  youth  she  had  known,  she  said  no 
thing.  After  a  silence,  lazily  watching  the 
distant  wheeling  vacquero,  she  said :  — 

"And  your  father  always  sends  an  out 
rider  like  that  with  you?  How  nice  !  So 
picturesque  —  and  like  the  old  Spanish 
days." 

"Hush!  "  said  Susy,  with  another  unut 
terable  glance. 

But  this  time  Mary  was  in  full  sympa 
thetic  communion  with  her  friend,  and  equal 
to  any  incoherent  hiatus  of  revelation. 

"No!"  she  said  promptly,  "you  don't 
mean  it! " 

"Don't  ask  me.  I  daren't  say  anything 
to  papa,  for  he  'd  be  simply  furious.  But 
there  are  times  when  we  're  alone,  and 
Pedro  wheels  down  so  near  with  such  a  look 
in  his  black  eyes,  that  I  'm  all  in  a  tremble. 
It's  dreadful!  They  say  he 's  a  real  Bri- 


A   STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  23 

ones,  —  and  he  sometimes  says  something  in 
Spanish,  ending  with  '  senorita, '  but  I  pre 
tend  I  don't  understand." 

"And  I  suppose  that  if  anything  should 
happen  to  the  ponies,  he  'd  just  risk  his  life 
to  save  you." 

"Yes,  — and  it  would  be  so  awful,  — for 
I  just  hate  him!  " 

"But  if  1  was  with  you,  dear,  he  couldn't 
expect  you  to  be  as  grateful  as  if  you  were 
alone.  Susy !  "  she  continued  after  a  pause, 
"  if  you  just  stirred  up  the  ponies  a  little  so 
as  to  make  'em  go  fast,  perhaps  he  might 
think  they  'd  got  away  from  you,  and  come 
dashing  down  here.  It  would  be  so  funny 
to  see  him,  —  would  n't  it  ?  " 

The  two  girls  looked  at  each  other ;  their 
eyes  sparkled  already  with  a  fearful  joy,  — 
they  drew  a  long  breath  of  guilty  anticipa 
tion.  For  a  moment  Susy  even  believed  in 
her  imaginary  sketch  of  Pedro's  devotion. 

"Papa  said  I  wasn't  to  use  the  whip 
except  in  a  case  of  necessity,"  she  said, 
reaching  for  the  slender  silver-handled  toy, 
and  setting  her  pretty  lips  together  with 
the  added  determination  of  disobedience. 
"G'long!  "  —  and  she  laid  the  lash  smartly 
on  the  shining  backs  of  the  animals. 


24  SUSY: 

They  were  wiry,  slender  brutes  of  Mojave 
Indian  blood,  only  lately  broken  to  harness, 
and  still  undisciplined  in  temper.  The  lash 
sent  them  rearing  into  the  air,  where,  forget 
ting  themselves  in  the  slackened  traces  and 
loose  reins,  they  came  down  with  a  succes 
sion  of  bounds  that  brought  the  light  buggy 
leaping  after  them  with  its  wheels  scarcely 
touching  the  ground.  That  unlucky  lash 
had  knocked  away  the  bonds  of  a  few 
months'  servitude  and  sent  the  half -broken 
brutes  instinctively  careering  with  arched 
backs  and  kicking  heels  into  the  field  to 
wards  the  nearest  cover. 

Mary  Rogers  cast  a  hurried  glance  over 
her  shoulder.  Alas,  they  had  not  calcu 
lated  on  the  insidious  levels  of  the  terraced 
plain,  and  the  faithful  Pedro  had  suddenly 
disappeared ;  the  intervention  of  six  inches 
of  rising  wild  oats  had  wiped  him  out  of  the 
prospect  and  their  possible  salvation  as  com 
pletely  as  if  he  had  been  miles  away.  Nev 
ertheless,  the  girls  were  not  frightened; 
perhaps  they  had  not  time.  There  was, 
however,  the  briefest  interval  for  the  most 
dominant  of  feminine  emotions,  and  it  was 
taken  advantage  of  by  Susy. 

"It  was  all  your  fault,  dear !  "  she  gasped, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAIN'S.  25 

as  the  fore  wheels  of  the  buggy,  dropping 
into  a  gopher  rut,  suddenly  tilted  up  the 
back  of  the  vehicle  and  shot  its  fair  occu 
pants  into  the  yielding  palisades  of  dusty 
grain.  The  shock  detached  the  whiffletree 
from  the  splinter-bar,  snapped  the  light  pole, 
and,  turning  the  now  thoroughly  fright 
ened  animals  again  from  their  course,  sent 
them,  goaded  by  the  clattering  fragments, 
flying  down  the  turnpike.  Half  a  mile 
farther  on  they  overtook  the  gleaming  white 
canvas  hood  of  a  slowly  moving  wagon 
drawn  by  two  oxen,  and,  swerving  again, 
the  nearer  pony  stepped  upon  a  trailing 
trace  and  ingloriously  ended  their  career  by 
rolling  himself  and  his  companion  in  the 
dust  at  the  very  feet  of  the  peacefully  plod 
ding  team. 

Equally  harmless  and  inglorious  was  the 
catastrophe  of  Susy  and  her  friend.  The 
strong,  elastic  stalks  of  the  tall  grain  broke 
their  fall  and  enabled  them  to  scramble  to 
their  feet,  dusty,  disheveled,  but  unhurt, 
and  even  unstunned  by  the  shock.  Their 
first  instinctive  cries  over  a  damaged  hat  or 
ripped  skirt  were  followed  by  the  quick 
reaction  of  childish  laughter.  They  were 
alone ;  the  very  defection  of  Pedro  consoled 


26  SUSY: 

them,  in  its  absence  of  any  witness  to  their 
disaster ;  even  their  previous  slight  attitude 
to  each  other  was  forgotten.  They  groped 
their  way,  pushing  and  panting,  to  the  road 
again,  where,  beholding  the  overset  buggy 
with  its  wheels  ludicrously  in  the  air,  they 
suddenly  seized  and  shook  each  other,  and 
in  an  outburst  of  hilarious  ecstasy,  fairly 
laughed  until  the  tears  came  into  their  eyes. 

Then  there  was  a  breathless  silence. 

"The  stage  will  be  coming  by  in  a  mo 
ment,"  composedly  said  Susy.  "Fix  me, 
dear." 

Mary  Rogers  calmly  walked  around  her 
friend,  bestowing  a  practical  shake  there,  a 
pluck  here,  completely  re  tying  one  bow  and 
restoring  an  engaging  fullness  to  another, 
yet  critically  examining,  with  her  head  on 
one  side,  the  fascinating  result.  Then 
Susy  performed  the  same  function  for  Mary 
with  equal  deliberation  and  deftness.  Sud 
denly  Mary  started  and  looked  up. 

"It 's  coming,"  she  said  quickly,  "and 
they  've  seen  us." 

The  expression  of  the  faces  of  the  two 
girls  instantly  changed.  A  pained  dignity 
and  resignation,  apparently  born  of  the 
most  harrowing  experiences  and  controlled 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  27 

only  by  perfect  good  breeding,  was  dis 
tinctly  suggested  in  their  features  and  atti 
tude  as  they  stood  patiently  by  the  wreck  of 
their  overturned  buggy  awaiting  the  oncom 
ing  coach.  In  sharp  contrast  was  the  evi 
dent  excitement  among  the  passengers.  A 
few  rose  from  their  seats  in  their  eagerness ; 
as  the  stage  pulled  up  in  the  road  beside 
the  buggy  four  or  five  of  the  younger  men 
leaped  to  the  ground. 

"Are  you  hurt,  miss?"  they  gasped  sym 
pathetically. 

Susy  did  not  immediately  reply,  but  omi 
nously  knitted  her  pretty  eyebrows  as  if 
repressing  a  spasm  of  pain.  Then  she  said, 
"Not  at  all,"  coldly,  with  the  suggestion 
of  stoically  concealing  some  lasting  or  per 
haps  fatal  injury,  and  took  the  arm  of  Mary 
Rogers,  who  had,  in  the  mean  time,  estab 
lished  a  touching  yet  graceful  limp. 

Declining  the  proffered  assistance  of  the 
passengers,  they  helped  each  other  into  the 
coach,  and  freezingly  requesting  the  driver 
to  stop  at  Mr.  Peyton's  gate,  maintained  a 
statuesque  and  impressive  silence.  At  the 
gates  they  got  down,  followed  by  the  sym 
pathetic  glances  of  the  others. 

To  all  appearance  their  escapade,  albeit 


28  SUSY: 

fraught  with  dangerous  possibilities,  had 
happily  ended.  But  in  the  economy  of  hu 
man  affairs,  as  in  nature,  forces  are  not 
suddenly  let  loose  without  more  or  less  sym 
pathetic  disturbance  which  is  apt  to  linger 
after  the  impelling  cause  is  harmlessly 
spent.  The  fright  which  the  girls  had  un 
successfully  attempted  to  produce  in  the 
heart  of  their  escort  had  passed  him  to  be 
come  a  panic  elsewhere.  Judge  Peyton, 
riding  near  the  gateway  of  his  rancho,  was 
suddenly  confronted  by  the  spectacle  of  one 
of  his  vacqueros  driving  on  before  him  the 
two  lassoed  and  dusty  ponies,  with  a  face 
that  broke  into  violent  gesticulating  at  his 
master's  quick  interrogation. 

"  Ah !  Mother  of  God !  It  was  an  evil 
day !  For  the  bronchos  had  run  away,  up 
set  the  buggy,  and  had  only  been  stopped 
by  a  brave  Americano  of  an  ox-team,  whose 
lasso  was  even  now  around  their  necks,  to 
prove  it,  and  who  had  been  dragged  a  mat 
ter  of  a  hundred  varas^  like  a  calf,  at  their 
heels.  The  senoritas,  —  ah!  had  he  not 
already  said  they  were  safe,  by  the  mercy 
of  Jesus !  —  picked  up  by  the  coach,  and 
would  be  here  at  this  moment." 

"But    where   was   Pedro   all  tEe   time? 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  29 

What  was  he  doing  ?  "  demanded  Peyton, 
with  a  darkened  face  and  gathering  anger. 

The  vacquero  looked  at  his  master,  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly.  At 
any  other  time  Peyton  would  have  remem 
bered  that  Pedro,  as  the  reputed  scion  of  a 
decayed  Spanish  family,  and  claiming  supe 
riority,  was  not  a  favorite  with  his  fellow- 
retaii\ers.  But  the  gesture,  half  of  sugges 
tion,  half  of  depreciation,  irritated  Peyton 
still  more. 

"Well,  where  is  this  American  who  did 
something  when  there  was  n't  a  man  among 
you  all  able  to  stop  a  child's  runaway 
ponies?"  he  said  sarcastically.  "Let  me 
see  him." 

The  vacquero  became  still  more  depre 
catory. 

"  Ah !  He  had  driven  on  with  his  team 
towards  San  Antonio.  He  would  not  stop 
to  be  thanked.  But  that  was  the  whole 
truth.  He,  Incarnacion,  could  swear  to  it 
as  to  the  Creed.  There  was  nothing  more." 

"Take  those  beasts  around  the  back  way 
to  the  corral,"  said  Peyton,  thoroughly  en 
raged,  "and  not  a  word  of  this  to  any  one  at 
the  casa,  do  you  hear?  Not  a  word  to  Mrs. 
Peyton  or  the  servants,  or,  by  Heaven,  I'  11 


30  SUSY: 

clear  the  rancho  of  the  whole  lazy  crew  of 
you  at  once.  Out  of  the  way  there,  and  be 
off!" 

He  spurred  his  horse  past  the  frightened 
menial,  and  dashed  down  the  narrow  lane 
that  led  to  the  gate.  But,  as  Incarnacion 
had  truly  said,  "It  was  an  evil  day,"  for  at 
the  bottom  of  the  lane,  ambling  slowly  along 
as  he  lazily  puffed  a  yellow  cigarette,  ap 
peared  the  figure  of  the  erring  Pedro.  Ut 
terly  unconscious  of  the  accident,  attribut 
ing  the  disappearance  of  his  charges  to  the 
inequalities  of  the  plain,  and,  in  truth,  little 
interested  in  what  he  firmly  believed  was  his 
purely  artificial  function,  he  had  even  made 
a  larger  circuit  to  stop  at  a  way  side  fonda 
for  refreshments. 

Unfortunately,  there  is  no  more  illogical 
sequence  of  human  emotion  than  the  exas 
peration  produced  by  the  bland  manner  of 
the  unfortunate  object  who  has  excited  it, 
although  that  very  unconcern  may  be  the 
convincing  proof  of  innocence  of  intention. 
Judge  Peyton,  already  influenced,  was  furi 
ous  at  the  comfortable  obliviousness  of  his 
careless  henchman,  and  rode  angrily  towards 
him.  Only  a  quick  turn  of  Pedro's  wrist 
kept  the  two  men  from  coming  info  colli 
sion. 


A  STOUT  OF  THE  PLAINS.  31 

"Is  this  the  way  you  attend  to  your 
duty?"  demanded  Peyton,  in  a  thick,  sup 
pressed  voice.  "Where  is  the  buggy? 
Where  is  my  daughter?" 

There  was  no  mistaking  Judge  Peyton's 
manner,  even  if  the  reason  of  it  was  not  so 
clear  to  Pedro's  mind,  and  his  hot  Latin 
blood  flew  instinctively  to  his  face.  But 
for  that,  he  might  have  shown  some  concern 
or  asked  an  explanation.  As  it  was,  he  at 
once  retorted  with  the  national  shrug  and 
the  national  half -scornful,  half -lazy  "  Quien 
sale?" 

"  Who  knows  ? '"'  repeated  Peyton,  hotly, 
"/do!  She  was  thrown  out  of  her  buggy 
through  your  negligence  and  infernal  lazi 
ness!  The  ponies  ran  away,  and  were 
stopped  by  a  stranger  who  wasn't  afraid  of 
risking  his  bones,  while  you  were  limping 
around  somewhere  like  a  slouching,  cow 
ardly  coyote." 

The  vacquero  struggled  a  moment  be 
tween  blank  astonishment  and  inarticulate 
rage.  At  last  he  burst  out :  — 

"  I  am  no  coyote !  I  was  there !  I  saw 
no  runaway! " 

"Don't  lie  to  me,  sir!"  roared  Peyton. 
"  I  tell  you  the  buggy  was  smashed,  the  girls 


32  SUSY: 

were  thrown  out  and  nearly  killed  "  —  He 
stopped  suddenly.  The  sound  of  youthful 
laughter  had  come  from  the  bottom  of  the 
lane,  where  Susy  Peyton  and  Mary  Rogers, 
just  alighted  from  the  coach,  in  the  reaction 
of  their  previous  constrained  attitude,  were 
flying  hilariously  into  view.  A  slight  em 
barrassment  crossed  Peyton's  face;  a  still 
deeper  flush  of  anger  overspread  Pedro's 
sullen  cheek. 

Then  Pedro  found  tongue  again,  his  na 
tive  one,  rapidly,  violently,  half  incoher 
ently.  "Ah,  yes!  It  had  come  to  this.  It 
seems  he  was  not  a  vacquero,  a  companion 
of  the  padrone  on  lands  that  had  been  his 
own  before  the  Americanos  robbed  him  of 
it,  but  a  servant,  a  lackey  of  muchachas,  an 
attendant  on  children  to  amuse  them,  or  — 
why  not?  —  an  appendage  to  his  daughter's 
state!  Ah,  Jesus  Maria!  such  a  state! 
such  a  muchacha !  A  picked-up  foundling 
—  a  swineherd's  daughter  —  to  be  ennobled 
by  his,  Pedro's,  attendance,  and  for  whose 
vulgar,  clownish  tricks,  —  tricks  of  a  swine 
herd's  daughter, — he,  Pedro,  was  to  be 
brought  to  book  and  insulted  as  if  she  were 
of  Hidalgo  blood!  Ah,  Caramba!  Don 
Juan  Peyton  would  find  he  could  no  more 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  33 

make  a  servant  of  him  than  he  could  make 
a  lady  of  her!  " 

The  two  young  girls  were  rapidly  ap 
proaching.  Judge  Peyton  spurred  his  horse 
beside  the  vacquero's,  and,  swinging  the 
long  thong  of  his  bridle  ominously  in  his 
clenched  fingers,  said,  with  a  white  face :  — 

"VamosJ" 

Pedro's  hand  slid  towards  his  sash.  Pey 
ton  only  looked  at  him  with  a  rigid  smile  of 
scorn. 

"  Or  I  '11  lash  you  here  before  them  both," 
he  added  in  a  lower  voice. 

The  vacquero  met  Peyton's  relentless  eyes 
with  a  yellow  flash  of  hate,  drew  his  reins 
sharply,  until  his  mustang,  galled  by  the 
cruel  bit,  reared  suddenly  as  if  to  strike  at 
the  immovable  American,  then,  apparently 
with  the  same  action,  he  swung  it  around 
on  its  hind  legs,  as  on  a  pivot,  and  dashed 
towards  the  corral  at  a  furious  gallop. 


34  SUSY: 


CHAPTER   III. 

MEANTIME  the  heroic  proprietor  of  the 
peaceful  ox -team,  whose  valor  Incarnacion 
had  so  infelicitously  celebrated,  was  walking 
listlessly  in  the  dust  beside  his  wagon.  At 
a  first  glance  his  slouching  figure,  taken  in 
connection  with  his  bucolic  conveyance,  did 
not  immediately  suggest  a  hero.  As  he 
emerged  from  the  dusty  cloud  it  could  be 
seen  that  he  was  wearing  a  belt  from  which 
a  large  dragoon  revolver  and  hunting  knife 
were  slung,  and  placed  somewhat  ostenta 
tiously  across  the  wagon  seat  was  a  rifle. 
Yet  the  other  contents  of  the  wagon  were  of 
a  singularly  inoffensive  character,  and  even 
suggested  articles  of  homely  barter.  Culi 
nary  utensils  of  all  sizes,  tubs,  scullery 
brushes,  and  clocks,  with  several  rolls  of 
cheap  carpeting  and  calico,  might  have 
been  the  wares  of  some  traveling  vender. 
Yet,  as  they  were  only  visible  through  a  flap 
of  the  drawn  curtains  of  the  canvas  hood, 
they  did  not  mitigate  the  general  aggressive 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  35 

effect  of  their  owner's  appearance.  A  red 
bandanna  handkerchief  knotted  and  thrown 
loosely  over  his  shoulders,  a  slouched  hat 
pulled  darkly  over  a  head  of  long  tangled 
hair,  which,  however,  shadowed  a  round, 
comfortable  face,  scantily  and  youthfully 
bearded,  were  part  of  these  confusing  in 
consistencies. 

The  shadows  of  the  team  wagon  were 
already  lengthening  grotesquely  over  the 
flat,  cultivated  fields,  which  for  some  time 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  plains  of  wild 
oats  in  the  branch  road  into  which  they  had 
turned.  The  gigantic  shadow  of  the  pro 
prietor,  occasionally  projected  before  it,  was 
in  characteristic  exaggeration,  and  was  often 
obliterated  by  a  puff  of  dust,  stirred  by  the 
plodding  hoofs  of  the  peaceful  oxen,  and 
swept  across  the  field  by  the  strong  after 
noon  trades.  The  sun  sank  lower,  although 
a  still  potent  presence  above  the  horizon 
line;  the  creaking  wagon  lumbered  still 
heavily  along.  Yet  at  intervals  its  bel 
ligerent  proprietor  would  start  up  from  his 
slouching,  silent  march,  break  out  into  vio 
lent,  disproportionate,  but  utterly  ineffec 
tive  objurgation  of  his  cattle,  jump  into  the 
air  and  kick  his  heels  together  in  some  par- 


36  SUSY: 

oxysm  of  indignation  against  them,  —  an 
act,  however,  which  was  received  always  with 
heavy  bovine  indifference,  the  dogged  scorn 
of  swaying,  repudiating  heads,  or  the  dull 
contempt  of  lazily  flicking  tails. 

Towards  sunset  one  or  two  straggling 
barns  and  cottages  indicated  their  approach 
to  the  outskirts  of  a  country  town  or  set 
tlement.  Here  the  team  halted,  as  if  the 
belligerent-looking  teamster  had  felt  his  ap 
pearance  was  inconsistent  with  an  effeminate 
civilization,  and  the  oxen  were  turned  into 
an  open  waste  opposite  a  nondescript  wooden 
tenement,  half  farmhouse  and  half  cabin, 
evidently  of  the  rudest  Western  origin.  He 
may  have  recognized  the  fact  that  these 
"  shanties  "  were  not,  as  the  ordinary  trav 
eler  might  infer,  the  first  rude  shelter  of  the 
original  pioneers  or  settlers,  but  the  later 
makeshifts  of  some  recent  Western  immi 
grants  who,  like  himself,  probably  found 
themselves  unequal  to  the  settled  habits  of 
the  village,  and  who  still  retained  their 
nomadic  instincts.  It  chanced,  however, 
that  the  cabin  at  present  was  occupied  by  a 
New  England  mechanic  and  his  family,  who 
had  emigrated  by  ship  around  Cape  Horn, 
and  who  had  no  experience  of  the 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  37 

the  plains,  or  its  people.  It  was  therefore 
with  some  curiosity  and  a  certain  amount  of 
fascinated  awe  that  the  mechanic's  only 
daughter  regarded  from  the  open  door  of 
her  dwelling  the  arrival  of  this  wild  and 
lawless-looking  stranger. 

Meantime  he  had  opened  the  curtains  of 
the  wagon  and  taken  from  its  interior  a 
number  of  pots,  pans,  and  culinary  utensils, 
which  he  proceeded  to  hang  upon  certain 
hooks  that  were  placed  on  the  outer  ribs  of 
the  board  and  the  sides  of  the  vehicle.  To 
this  he  added  a  roll  of  rag  carpet,  the  end 
of  which  hung  from  the  tailboard,  and  a  roll 
of  pink  calico  temptingly  displayed  on  the 
seat.  The  mystification  and  curiosity  of  the 
young  girl  grew  more  intense  at  these  pro 
ceedings.  It  looked  like  the  ordinary  exhi 
bition  of  a  traveling  peddler,  but  the  gloomy 
and  embattled  appearance  of  the  man  him 
self  scouted  so  peaceful  and  commonplace  a 
suggestion.  Under  the  pretense  of  chasing 
away  a  marauding  hen,  she  sallied  out  upon 
the  waste  near  the  wagon.  It  then  became 
evident  that  the  traveler  had  seen  her,  and 
was  not  averse  to  her  interest  in  his  move 
ments,  although  he  had  not  changed  his  atti 
tude  of  savage  retrospection.  An  occasional 


38  SUSY: 

0 

ejaculation  of  suppressed  passion,  as  if  the 
memory  of  some  past  conflict  was  too  much 
for  him,  escaped  him  even  in  this  peaceful 
occupation.  As  this  possibly  caused  the 
young  girl  to  still  hover  timidly  in  the  dis 
tance,  he  suddenly  entered  the  wagon  and 
reappeared  carrying  a  tin  bucket,  with  which 
he  somewhat  ostentatiously  crossed  her  path, 
his  eyes  darkly  wandering  as  if  seeking 
something. 

"If  you  're  lookin'  for  the  spring,  it 's  a 
spell  furder  on  —  by  the  willows." 

It  was  a  pleasant  voice,  the  teamster 
thought,  albeit  with  a  dry,  crisp,  New  Eng 
land  accent  unfamiliar  to  his  ears.  He 
looked  into  the  depths  of  an  unlovely  blue- 
check  sunbonnet,  and  saw  certain  small, 
irregular  features  and  a  sallow  cheek,  lit  up 
by  a  pair  of  perfectly  innocent,  trustful,  and 
wondering  brown  eyes.  Their  timid  pos 
sessor  seemed  to  be  a  girl  of  seventeen, 
whose  figure,  although  apparently  clad  in 
one  of  her  mother's  gowns,  was  still  unde 
veloped  and  repressed  by  rustic  hardship 
and  innutrition.  As  her  eyes  met  his  she 
saw  that  the  face  of  this  gloomy  stranger 
was  still  youthful,  by  no  means  implacable, 
and,  even  at  that  moment,  was  actually  suf- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  39 

fused  by  a  brick-colored  blush!  In  matters 
of  mere  intuition,  the  sex,  even  in  its  most 
rustic  phase,  is  still  our  superior ;  and  this 
unsophisticated  girl,  as  the  trespasser  stam 
mered,  "Thank  ye,  miss,"  was  instinctively 
emboldened  to  greater  freedom. 

"Dad  ain't  tu  hum,  but  ye  kin  have  a 
drink  o'  milk  if  ye  keer  for  it." 

She  motioned  shyly  towards  the  cabin,  and 
then  led  the  way.  The  stranger,  with  an 
inarticulate  murmur,  afterwards  disguised 
as  a  cough,  followed  her  meekly.  Never 
theless,  by  the  time  they  had  reached  the 
cabin  he  had  shaken  his  long  hair  over  his 
eyes  again,  and  a  dark  abstraction  gathered 
chiefly  in  his  eyebrows.  But  it  did  not 
efface  from  the  girl's  mind  the  previous  con 
cession  of  a  blush,  and,  although  it  added  to 
her  curiosity,  did  not  alarm  her.  He  drank 
the  milk  awkwardly.  But  by  the  laws  of 
courtesy,  even  among  the  most  savage  tribes, 
she  felt  he  was,  at  that  moment  at  least, 
harmless.  A  timid  smile  fluttered  around 
her  mouth  as  she  said :  — 

"  When  ye  hung  up  them  things  I  thought 
ye  might  be  havin'  suthing  to  swap  or  sell. 
That  is,"  —  with  tactful  politeness,  —  "mo 
ther  was  wantin'  a  new  skillet,  and  it  would 


40  SUSY: 

have  been  handy  if  you  'd  had  one.  But " 
—  with  an  apologetic  glance  at  his  equip 
ments —  "if  it  ain't  your  business,  it 's  all 
right,  and  no  offense." 

"I've  got  a  lot  o'  skillets,"  said  the 
strange  teamster,  with  marked  condescen^ 
sion,  "and  she  can  have  one.  They're  all 
that 's  left  outer  a  heap  o'  trader's  stuff  cap 
tured  by  Injuns  t'  other  side  of  Laramie. 
We  had  a  big  fight  to  get  'em  back.  Lost 
two  of  our  best  men,  —  scalped  at  Bloody 
Creek,  —  and  had  to  drop  a  dozen  redskins 
in  their  tracks,  —  me  and  another  man,  — 
lyin'  flat  in  er  wagon  and  fir  in'  under  the 
flaps  o'  the  canvas.  I  don't  know  ez  they 
waz  wuth  it,"  he  added  in  gloomy  retro 
spect;  "but  I've  got  to  get  rid  of  'em,  I 
reckon,  somehow,  afore  I  work  over  to  Dead- 
man's  Gulch  again." 

The  young  girl's  eyes  brightened  timidly 
with  a  feminine  mingling  of  imaginative  awe 
and  personal,  pitying  interest.  He  was, 
after  all,  so  young  and  amiable  looking  for 
such  hardships  and  adventures.  And  with 
all  this,  he  —  this  Indian  fighter  —  was  a 
little  afraid  of  her  ! 

"Then  that's  why  you  carry  that  knife 
and  six-shooter?"  she  said.  "But  you 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  41 

won't  want  'em  now,  here   in  the    settle 
ment." 

"That's  ez  mebbe,"  said  the  stranger 
darkly.  He  paused,  and  then  suddenly,  as 
if  recklessly  accepting  a  dangerous  risk,  un 
buckled  his  revolver  and  handed  it  abstract 
edly  to  the  young  girl.  But  the  sheath  of 
the  bowie-knife  was  a  fixture  in  his  body- 
belt,  and  he  was  obliged  to  withdraw  the 
glittering  blade  by  itself,  and  to  hand  it  to 
her  in  all  its  naked  terrors.  The  young  girl 
received  the  weapons  with  a  smiling  com 
placency.  Upon  such  altars  as  these  the 
skeptical  reader  will  remember  that  Mars 
had  once  hung  his  "battered  shield,"  his 
lance,  and  "uncontrolled  crest." 

Nevertheless,  the  warlike  teamster  was 
not  without  embarrassment.  Muttering 
something  about  the  necessity  of  "looking 
after  his  stock,"  he  achieved  a  hesitating 
bow,  backed  awkwardly  out  of  the  door,  and 
receiving  from  the  conquering  hands  of  the 
young  girl  his  weapons  again,  was  obliged 
to  carry  them  somewhat  ingloriously  in  his 
hands  across  the  road,  and  put  them  on  the 
wagon  seat,  where,  in  company  with  the 
culinary  articles,  they  seemed  to  lose  their 
distinctively  aggressive  character.  Here, 


42  8US7: 

although  his  cheek  was  still  flushed  from  his 
peaceful  encounter,  his  voice  regained  some 
of  its  hoarse  severity  as  he  drove  the  oxen 
from  the  muddy  pool  into  which  they  had 
luxuriantly  wandered,  and  brought  their 
fodder  from  the  wagon.  Later,  as  the  sun 
was  setting,  he  lit  a  corn-cob  pipe,  and 
somewhat  ostentatiously  strolled  down  the 
road,  with  a  furtive  eye  lingering  upon  the 
still  open  door  of  the  farmhouse.  Presently 
two  angular  figures  appeared  from  it,  the 
farmer  and  his  wife,  intent  on  barter. 

These  he  received  with  his  previous 
gloomy  preoccupation,  and  a  slight  varia 
tion  of  the  story  he  had  told  their  daughter. 
It  is  possible  that  his  suggestive  indiffer 
ence  piqued  and  heightened  the  bargaining 
instincts  of  the  woman,  for  she  not  only 
bought  the  skillet,  but  purchased  a  clock 
and  a  roll  of  carpeting.  Still  more,  in  some 
effusion  of  rustic  courtesy,  she  extended  an 
invitation  to  him  to  sup  with  them,  which 
he  declined  and  accepted  in  the  same  em 
barrassed  breath,  returning  the  proffered 
hospitality  by  confidentially  showing  them 
a  couple  of  dried  scalps,  presumably  of  In 
dian  origin.  It  was  in  the  same  moment  of 
human  weakness  that  he  answered  tGeir  po- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  43 

lite  query  as  to  "what  they  might  call  him," 
by  intimating  that  his  name  was  "Red 
Jim,"  —  a  title  of  achievement  by  which  he 
was  generally  known,  which  for  the  present 
must  suffice  them.  But  during  the  repast 
that  followed  this  was  shortened  to  "Mister 
Jim,"  and  even  familiarly  by  the  elders  to 
plain  "Jim."  Only  the  young  girl  habitu 
ally  used  the  formal  prefix  in  return  for  the 
"Miss  Phoabe  "  that  he  called  her. 

With  three  such  sympathetic  and  unex 
perienced  auditors  the  gloomy  embarrass 
ment  of  Red  Jim  was  soon  dissipated,  al 
though  it  could  hardly  be  said  that  he  was 
generally  communicative.  Dark  tales  of 
Indian  warfare,  of  night  attacks  and  wild 
stampedes,  in  which  he  had  always  taken  a 
prominent  part,  flowed  freely  from  his  lips, 
but  little  else  of  his  past  history  or  present 
prospects.  And  even  his  narratives  of  ad 
venture  were  more  or  less  fragmentary  and 
imperfect  in  detail. 

"You  woz  saying,"  said  the  farmer,  with 
slow,  matter  of  fact,  New  England  delibera 
tion,  "ez  how  you  guessed  you  woz  beguiled 
amongst  the  In j  ins  by  your  Mexican  part 
ner,  a  pow'ful  influential  man,  and  yet  you 
woz  the  only  one  escaped  the  gen'ral  slar- 


44  SUSY: 

terin'.  How  came  the  In j  ins  to  kill  Aim,  — 
their  friend?" 

"They  didn't,"  returned  Jim,  with  omi 
nously  averted  eyes. 

"What  became  of  him?"  continued  the 
farmer. 

Red  Jim  shadowed  his  eyes  with  his 
hand,  and  cast  a  dark  glance  of  scrutiny 
out  of  the  doors  and  windows.  The  young 
girl  perceived  it  with  timid,  fascinated  con 
cern,  and  said  hurriedly :  — 

"Don't  ask  him,  father!  Don't  you  see 
he  mustn't  tell?" 

"Not  when  spies  may  be  hangin'  round, 
and  doggin'  me  at  every  step,"  said  Red 
Jim,  as  if  reflecting,  with  another  furtive 
glance  towards  the  already  fading  prospect 
without.  "They  've  sworn  to  revenge  him," 
he  added  moodily. 

A  momentary  silence  followed.  The 
farmer  coughed  slightly,  and  looked  dubi 
ously  at  his  wife.  But  the  two  women  had 
already  exchanged  feminine  glances  of  sym 
pathy  for  this  evident  slayer  of  traitors,  and 
were  apparently  inclined  to  stop  any  ad 
verse  criticism. 

In  the  midst  of  which  a  shout  was  heard 
from  the  road.  The  farmer  and  his  family 


A  STORY  OF  TEE  PLAINS.  45 

instinctively  started.  Red  Jim  alone  re 
mained  unmoved,  —  a  fact  which  did  not  les 
sen  the  admiration  of  his  feminine  audience. 
The  host  rose  quickly,  and  went  out.  The 
figure  of  a  horseman  had  halted  in  the  road, 
but  after  a  few  moments'  conversation  with 
the  farmer  they  both  moved  towards  the 
house  and  disappeared.  When  the  farmer 
returned,  it  was  to  say  that  "  one  of  them 
'Frisco  dandies,  who  didn't  keer  about  stop- 
pin'  at  the  hotel  in  the  settlement,"  had 
halted  to  give  his  "critter"  a  feed  and 
drink  that  he  might  continue  his  journey. 
He  had  asked  him  to  come  in  while  the 
horse  was  feeding,  but  the  stranger  had 
"guessed  he  'd  stretch  his  legs  outside  and 
smoke  his  cigar;"  he  might  have  thought 
the  company  "not  fine  enough  for  him," 
but  he  was  "civil  spoken  enough,  and  had 
an  all-fired  smart  hoss,  and  seemed  to  know 
how  to  run  him."  To  the  anxious  inqui 
ries  of  his  wife  and  daughter  he  added  that 
the  stranger  didn't  seem  like  a  spy  or  a 
Mexican;  was  "as  young  as  Aim,"  pointing 
to  the  moody  Red  Jim,  "  and  a  darned  sight 
more  peaceful -like  in  style." 

Perhaps  owing  to   the   criticism   of  the 
farmer,  perhaps  from  some  still  lurking  sus- 


46  SUSY: 

picion  of  being  overheard  by  eavesdroppers, 
or  possibly  from  a  humane  desire  to  relieve 
the  strained  apprehension  of  the  women, 
Red  Jim,  as  the  farmer  disappeared  to  rejoin 
the  stranger,  again  dropped  into  a  lighter 
and  gentler  vein  of  reminiscence.  He  told 
them  how,  when  a  mere  boy,  he  had  been 
lost  from  an  emigrant  train  in  company 
with  a  little  girl  some  years  his  junior. 
How,  when  they  found  themselves  alone  on 
the  desolate  plain,  with  the  vanished  train 
beyond  their  reach,  he  endeavored  to  keep 
the  child  from  a  knowledge  of  the  real  dan 
ger  of  their  position,  and  to  soothe  and 
comfort  her.  How  he  carried  her  on  his 
back,  until,  exhausted,  he  sank  in  a  heap  of 
sage-brush.  How  he  was  surrounded  by  In 
dians,  who,  however,  never  suspected  his 
hiding-place ;  and  how  he  remained  motion 
less  and  breathless  with  the  sleeping  child 
for  three  hours,  until  they  departed.  How, 
at  the  last  moment,  he  had  perceived  a  train 
in  the  distance,  and  had  staggered  with  her 
thither,  although  shot  at  and  wounded  by 
the  trainmen  in  the  belief  that  he  was  an 
Indian.  How  it  was  afterwards  discovered 
that  the  child  was  the  long-lost  daughter  of 
a  millionaire ;  how  he  had  resolutely  refused 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  47 

any  gratuity  for  saving  her,  and  she  was 
now  a  peerless  young  heiress,  famous  in 
California.  Whether  this  lighter  tone  of 
narrative  suited  him  better,  or  whether  the 
active  feminine  sympathy  of  his  auditors 
helped  him  along,  certain  it  was  that  his 
story  was  more  coherent  and  intelligible  and 
his  voice  less  hoarse  and  constrained  than 
in  his  previous  belligerent  reminiscences; 
his  expression  changed,  and  even  his  fea 
tures  worked  into  something  like  gentler 
emotion.  The  bright  eyes  of  Phoebe,  fas 
tened  upon  him,  turned  dim  with  a  faint 
moisture,  and  her  pale  cheek  took  upon  it 
self  a  little  color.  The  mother,  after  inter 
jecting  "Du  tell,"  and  "  I  wanter  know," 
remained  open-mouthed,  staring  at  her  vis 
itor.  And  in  the  silence  that  followed,  a 
pleasant,  but  somewhat  melancholy  voice 
came  from  the  open  door. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  thought  I 
could  n't  be  mistaken.  It  is  my  old  friend, 
Jim  Hooker!" 

Everybody  started.  Eed  Jim  stumbled 
to  his  feet  with  an  inarticulate  and  hysteric 
exclamation.  Yet  the  apparition  that  now 
stood  in  the  doorway  was  far  from  being  ter 
rifying  or  discomposing.  It  was  evidently 


48  SUSY: 

the  stranger,  —  a  slender,  elegantly-knit  fig 
ure,  whose  upper  lip  was  faintly  shadowed 
by  a  soft,  dark  mustache  indicating  early 
manhood,  and  whose  unstudied  ease  in  his 
well-fitting  garments  bespoke  the  dweller  of 
cities.  Good-looking  and  well-dressed,  with 
out  the  consciousness  of  being  either ;  self- 
possessed  through  easy  circumstances,  yet 
without  self-assertion;  courteous  by  nature 
and  instinct  as  well  as  from  an  experience 
of  granting  favors,  he  might  have  been  a 
welcome  addition  to  even  a  more  critical 
company.  But  Eed  Jim,  hurriedly  seizing 
his  outstretched  hand,  instantly  dragged  him 
away  from  the  doorway  into  the  road  and 
out  of  hearing  of  his  audience. 

"Did  you  hear  what  I  was  saying?"  he 
asked  hoarsely. 

"Well,  yes,— I  think  so,"  returned  the 
stranger,  with  a  quiet  smile. 

"Ye  ain't  goin'  back  on  me,  Clarence, 
are  ye,  —  ain't  goin'  to  gimme  away  afore 
them,  old  pard,  are  ye  ?  "  said  Jim,  with  a 
sudden  change  to  almost  pathetic  pleading. 

"No,"  returned  the  stranger,  smiling. 
"And  certainly  not  before  that  interested 
young  lady,  Jim.  But  stop.  Let  me  look 
at  you." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  49 

He  held  out  both  hands,  took  Jim's, 
spread  them  apart  for  a  moment  with  a  boy 
ish  gesture,  and,  looking  in  his  face,  said 
half  mischievously,  half  sadly,  "Yes,  it's 
the  same  old  Jim  Hooker,  — unchanged." 

"But  you're  changed, — reg'lar  war 
paint,  Big  Injin  style!  "  said  Hooker,  look 
ing  up  at  him  with  an  awkward  mingling  of 
admiration  and  envy.  "Heard  you  struck 
it  rich  with  the  old  man,  and  was  Mister 
Brant  now! " 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence  gently,  yet  with  a 
smile  that  had  not  only  a  tinge  of  weariness 
but  even  of  sadness  in  it. 

Unfortunately,  the  act,  which  was  quite 
natural  to  Clarence's  sensitiveness,  and  in 
deed  partly  sprang  from  some  concern  in  his 
old  companion's  fortunes,  translated  itself 
by  a  very  human  process  to  Hooker's  con 
sciousness  as  a  piece  of  rank  affectation. 
He  would  have  been  exalted  and  exultant 
in  Clarence's  place,  consequently  any  other 
exhibition  was  only  "airs."  Nevertheless, 
at  the  present  moment  Clarence  was  to  be 
placated. 

"You  didn't  mind  my  telling  that  story 
about  your  savin'  Susy  as  my  own,  did  ye?" 
he  said,  with  a  hasty  glance  over  his  shoul- 


50  SUSY: 

der.  "  I  only  did  it  to  fool  the  old  man  and 
women-folks,  and  make  talk.  You  won't 
blow  on  me?  Ye  ain't  mad  about  it?  " 

It  had  crossed  Clarence's  memory  that 
when  they  were  both  younger  Jim  Hooker 
had  once  not  only  borrowed  his  story,  but 
his  name  and  personality  as  well.  Yet  in 
his  loyalty  to  old  memories  there  was  min 
gled  no  resentment  for  past  injury*  "  Of 
course  not,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  that  was, 
however,  stiU  thoughtful.  "  Why  should  I  ? 
Only  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  Susy  Peyton 
is  living  with  her  adopted  parents  not  ten 
miles  from  here,  and  it  might  reach  their 
ears.  She  ?s  quite  a  young  lady  now,  and 
if  /  would  n't  tell  her  story  to  strangers,  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to,  Jim." 

He  said  this  so  pleasantly  that  even  the 
skeptical  Jim  forgot  what  he  believed  were 
the  "airs  and  graces  "  of  self-abnegation,  and 
said,  "Let's  go  inside,  and  I'll  introduce 
you,"  and  turned  to  the  house.  But  Clar 
ence  Brant  drew  back.  "I  'm  going  on  as 
soon  as  my  horse  is  fed,  for  I  'm  on  a  visit 
to  Peyton,  and  I  intend  to  push  as  far  as 
Santa  Inez  still  to-night.  I  want  to  talk 
with  you  about  yourself,  Jim,"  hfi  added 
gently;  "your  prospects  and  your  future. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  51 

I  heard,"  he  went  on  hesitatingly,  "that 
you  were  —  at  work  —  in  a  restaurant  in 
San  Francisco.  I  'm  glad  to  see  that  you 
are  at  least  your  own  master  here,"  —  he 
glanced  at  the  wagon.  "You  are  selling 
things,  I  suppose?  For  yourself,  or  an 
other?  Is  that  team  yours?  Come,"  he 
added,  still  pleasantly,  but  in  an  older  and 
graver  voice,  with  perhaps  the  least  touch 
of  experienced  authority,  "be  frank,  Jim. 
Which  is  it?  Never  mind  what  things 
you  've  told  in  there,  tell  me  the  truth  about 
yourself.  Can  I  help  you  in  any  way? 
Believe  me,  I  should  like  to.  We  have 
been  old  friends,  whatever  difference  in  our 
luck,  I  am  yours  still." 

Thus  adjured,  the  redoubtable  Jim,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  with  a  furtive  eye  on  the 
house,  admitted  that  he  was  traveling  for 
an  itinerant  peddler,  whom  he  expected  to 
join  later  in  the  settlement;  that  he  had  his 
own  methods  of  disposing  of  his  wares,  and 
(darkly)  that  his  proprietor  and  the  world 
generally  had  better  not  interfere  with  him ; 
that  (with  a  return  to  more  confidential 
lightness)  he  had  already  "  worked  the  Wild 
West  Injin  "  business  so  successfully  as  to 
dispose  of  his  wares,  particularly  in  yonder 


52  SUSY* 

house,  and  might  do  even  more  if  not  pre 
maturely  and  wantonly  "blown  upon," 
"gone  back  on,"  or  "given  away." 

"But  wouldn't  you  like  to  settle  down 
on  some  bit  of  land  like  this,  and  improve  it 
for  yourself?"  said  Clarence.  "All  these 
valley  terraces  are  bound  to  rise  in  value, 
and  meantime  you  would  be  independent. 
It  could  be  managed,  Jim.  I  think  /  could 
arrange  it  for  you,"  he  went  on,  with  a 
slight  glow  of  youthful  enthusiasm.  "  Write 
to  me  at  Peyton's  ranch,  and  I  '11  see  you 
when  I  come  back,  and  we  '11  hunt  up  some 
thing  for  you  together."  As  Jim  received 
the  proposition  with  a  kind  of  gloomy  em 
barrassment,  he  added  lightly,  with  a  glance 
at  the  farmhouse,  "It  might  be  near  here, 
you  know;  and  you  'd  have  pleasant  neigh 
bors,  and  even  eager  listeners  to  your  old 
adventures." 

"You  'd  better  come  in  a  minit  before 
you  go,"  said  Jim,  clumsily  evading  a  direct 
reply.  Clarence  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
then  yielded.  For  an  equal  moment  Jim 
Hooker  was  torn  between  secret  jealousy  of 
his  old  comrade's  graces  and  a  desire  to 
present  them  as  familiar  associations  of  his 
own.  But  his  vanity  was  quickly  appeased. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  53 

Need  it  be  said  that  the  two  women  re 
ceived  this  fleck  and  foam  of  a  super-civiliza 
tion  they  knew  little  of  as  almost  an  imper 
tinence  compared  to  the  rugged,  gloomy, 
pathetic,  and  equally  youthful  hero  of  an 
adventurous  wilderness  of  which  they  knew 
still  less?  What  availed  the  courtesy  and 
gentle  melancholy  of  Clarence  Brant  beside 
the  mysterious  gloom  and  dark  savagery  of 
Red  Jim?  Yet  they  received  him  patroniz 
ingly,  as  one  who  was,  like  themselves,  an 
admirer  of  manly  grace  and  power,  and  the 
recipient  of  Jim's  friendship.  The  farmer 
alone  seemed  to  prefer  Clarence,  and  yet 
the  latter's  tacit  indorsement  of  Red  Jim, 
through  his  evident  previous  intimacy  with 
him,  impressed  the  man  in  Jim's  favor. 
All  of  which  Clarence  saw  with  that  sensi 
tive  perception  which  had  given  him  an 
early  insight  into  human  weakness,  yet  still 
had  never  shaken  his  youthful  optimism. 
He  smiled  a  little  thoughtfully,  but  was 
openly  fraternal  to  Jim,  courteous  to  his 
host  and  family,  and,  as  he  rode  away  in  the 
faint  moonlight,  magnificently  opulent  in 
his  largess  to  the  farmer,  —  his  first  and 
only  assertion  of  his  position. 

The    farmhouse,    straggling     barn,    and 


54  SUSY: 

fringe  of  dusty  willows,  the  white  dome  of 
the  motionless  wagon,  with  the  hanging 
frying  pans  and  kettles  showing  in  the 
moonlight  like  black  silhouettes  against  the 
staring  canvas,  all  presently  sank  behind 
Clarence  like  the  details  of  a  dream,  and  he 
was  alone  with  the  moon,  the  hazy  mystery 
of  the  level,  grassy  plain,  and  the  monotony 
of  the  unending  road.  As  he  rode  slowly 
along  he  thought  of  that  other  dreary  plain, 
white  with  alkali  patches  and  brown  with 
rings  of  deserted  camp-fires,  known  to  his 
boyhood  of  deprivation,  dependency,  dan 
ger,  and  adventure,  oddly  enough,  with  a 
strange  delight ;  and  his  later  years  of  study, 
monastic  seclusion,  and  final  ease  and  in 
dependence,  with  an  easy  sense  of  wasted 
existence  and  useless  waiting.  He  remem 
bered  his  homeless  childhood  in  the  South, 
where  servants  and  slaves  took  the  place  of 
the  father  he  had  never  known,  and  the 
mother  that  he  rarely  saw;  he  remembered 
his  abandonment  to  a  mysterious  female 
relation,  where  his  natural  guardians  seemed 
to  have  overlooked  and  forgotten  him,  until 
he  was  sent,  an  all  too  young  adventurer, 
to  work  his  passage  on  an  overland  emigrant 
train  across  the  plains ;  he  remembered,  as 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  55 

yesterday,  the  fears,  the  hopes,  the  dreams 
and  dangers  of  that  momentous  journey.  He 
recalled  his  little  playmate,  Susy,  and  their 
strange  adventures  —  the  whole  incident  that 
the  imaginative  Jim  Hooker  had  translated 
and  rehearsed  as  his  own  —  rose  vividly 
before  him.  He  thought  of  the  cruel  end 
of  that  pilgrimage,  which  again  left  him 
homeless  and  forgotten  by  even  the  relative 
he  was  seeking  in  a  strange  land.  He  re 
membered  his  solitary  journey  to  the  gold 
mines,  taken  with  a  boy's  trust  and  a  boy's 
fearlessness,  and  the  strange  protector  he 
had  found  there,  who  had  news  of  his  miss 
ing  kinsman ;  he  remembered  how  this  pro 
tector  —  whom  he  had  at  once  instinctively 
loved  —  transferred  him  to  the  house  of  this 
new-found  relation,  who  treated  him  kindly 
and  sent  him  to  the  Jesuit  school,  but  who 
never  awakened  in  him  a  feeling  of  kinship. 
He  dreamed  again  of  his  life  at  school,  his 
accidental  meeting  with  Susy  at  Santa  Clara, 
the  keen  revival  of  his  boyish  love  for  his 
old  playmate,  now  a  pretty  schoolgirl,  the 
petted  adopted  child  of  wealthy  parents. 
He  recalled  the  terrible  shock  that  inter 
rupted  this  boyish  episode :  the  news  of  the 
death  of  his  protector,  and  the  revelation 


56  SUSY: 

that  this  hard,  silent,  and  mysterious  man 
was  his  own  father,  whose  reckless  life  and 
desperate  reputation  had  impelled  him  to 
assume  a  disguise. 

He  remembered  how  his  sudden  accession 
to  wealth  and  independence  had  half  fright 
ened  him,  and  had  always  left  a  lurking 
sensitiveness  that  he  was  unfairly  favored, 
by  some  mere  accident,  above  his  less  lucky 
companions.  The  rude  vices  of  his  old 
associates  had  made  him  impatient  of  the 
feebler  sensual  indulgences  of  the  later 
companions  of  his  luxury,  and  exposed  their 
hollow  fascinations;  his  sensitive  fastidious 
ness  kept  him  clean  among  vulgar  tempta 
tions;  his  clear  perceptions  were  never 
blinded  by  selfish  sophistry.  Meantime  his 
feeling  for  Susy  remained  unchanged.  Pride 
had  kept  him  from  seeking  the  Peytons. 
His  present  visit  was  as  unpremeditated  as 
Peyton's  invitation  had  been  unlocked  for 
by  him.  Yet  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to 
be  deceived.  He  knew  that  this  courtesy 
was  probably  due  to  the  change  in  his  for 
tune,  although  he  had  hoped  it  might  have 
been  some  change  in  their  opinion  brought 
about  by  Susy.  But  he  would  at  lea^t  see 
her  again,  not  in  the  pretty,  half -clandestine 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS,  57 

way  she  had  thought  necessary,  but  openly 
and  as  her  equal. 

In  his  rapid  ride  he  seemed  to  have  sud 
denly  penetrated  the  peaceful  calm  of  the 
night.  The  restless  irritation  of  the  after 
noon  trade  winds  had  subsided ;  the  tender 
moonlight  had  hushed  and  tranquilly  pos 
sessed  the  worried  plain ;  the  unending  files 
of  wild  oats,  far  spaced  and  distinct,  stood 
erect  and  motionless  as  trees ;  something  of 
the  sedate  solemnity  of  a  great  forest  seemed 
to  have  fallen  upon  their  giant  stalks. 
There  was  no  dew.  In  that  light,  dry  air, 
the  heavier  dust  no  longer  rose  beneath  the 
heels  of  his  horse,  whose  flying  shadow 
passed  over  the  field  like  a  cleud,  leaving 
no  trail  or  track  behind  it.  In  the  preoc 
cupation  of  his  thought  and  his  breathless 
retrospect,  the  young  man  had  ridden  faster 
than  he  intended,  and  he  now  checked  his 
panting  horse.  The  influence  of  the  night 
and  the  hushed  landscape  stole  over  him; 
his  thoughts  took  a  gentler  turn;  in  that 
dim,  mysterious  horizon  line  before  him,  his 
future  seemed  to  be  dreamily  peopled  with 
airy,  graceful  shapes  that  more  or  less  took 
the  likeness  of  Susy.  She  was  bright,  co 
quettish,  romantic,  as  he  had  last  seen  her; 


58  SUSY: 

she  was  older,  graver,  and  thoughtfully  wel 
come  of  him ;  or  she  was  cold,  distant,  and 
severely  forgetful  of  the  past.  How  would 
her  adopted  father  and  mother  receive  him  ? 
Would  they  ever  look  upon  him  in  the  light 
of  a  suitor  to  the  young  girl  ?  He  had  no 
fear  of  Peyton,  —  he  understood  his  own  sex, 
and,  young  as  he  was,  knew  already  how  to 
make  himself  respected ;  but  how  could  he 
overcome  that  instinctive  aversion  which 
Mrs.  Peyton  had  so  often  made  him  feel  he 
had  provoked?  Yet  in  this  dreamy  hush 
of  earth  and  sky,  what  was  not  possible? 
His  boyish  heart  beat  high  with  daring  vis 
ions. 

He  saw  Mrs.  Peyton  in  the  porch,  wel 
coming  him  with  that  maternal  smile  which 
his  childish  longing  had  so  often  craved  to 
share  with  Susy.  Peyton  would  be  there, 
too,  —  Peyton,  who  had  once  pushed  back 
his  torn  straw  hat  to  look  approvingly  in 
his  boyish  eyes ;  and  Peyton,  perhaps,  might 
be  proud  of  him. 

Suddenly  he  started.  A  voice  in  his  very 
ear! 

"Bah!  A  yoke  of  vulgar  cattle  grazing 
on  lands  that  were  thine  by  right  and  law. 
Neither  more  nor  less  than  that.  And  I 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  59 

tell  thee,  Pancho,  like  cattle,  to  be  driven 
off  or  caught  and  branded  for  one's  own. 
Ha!  There  are  those  who  could  swear  to 
the  truth  of  this  on  the  Creed.  Ay!  and 
bring  papers  stamped  and  signed  by  the 
governor's  rubric  to  prove  it.  And  not 
that  I  hate  them,  —  bah !  what  are  those 
heretic  swine  to  me?  But  thou  dost  com 
prehend  me  ?  It  galls  and  pricks  me  to  see 
them  swelling  themselves  with  stolen  husks, 
and  men  like  thee,  Pancho,  ousted  from 
their  own  land." 

Clarence  had  halted  in  utter  bewilder 
ment.  No  one  was  visible  before  him,  be 
hind  him,  on  either  side.  The  words,  in 
Spanish,  came  from  the  air,  the  sky,  the 
distant  horizon,  he  knew  not  which.  Was 
he  still  dreaming?  A  strange  shiver  crept 
over  his  skin  as  if  the  air  had  grown  sud 
denly  chill.  Then  another  mysterious  voice 
arose,  incredulous,  half  mocking,  but 
equally  distinct  and  clear. 

"Caramba!  What  is  this?  You  are 
wandering,  friend  Pancho.  You  are  still 
smarting  from  his  tongue.  He  has  the 
grant  confirmed  by  his  brigand  government; 
he  has  the  possession,  stolen  by  a  thief  like 
himself;  and  he  has  the  Corregidors  with 


60  SUSY: 

him.  For  is  he  not  one  of  them  himself, 
this  Judge  Peyton?  " 

Peyton!  Clarence  felt  the  blood  rush 
back  to  his  face  in  astonishment  and  in 
dignation.  His  heels  mechanically  pressed 
his  horse 's'flanks,  and  the  animal  sprang 
forward. 

"  Guarda  !  Mir  a  !  "  said  the  voice  again 
in  a  quicker,  lower  tone.  But  this  time  it 
was  evidently  in  the  field  beside  him,  and 
the  heads  and  shoulders  of  two  horsemen 
emerged  at  the  same  moment  from  the  tall 
ranks  of  wild  oats.  The  mystery  was 
solved.  The  strangers  had  been  making 
their  way  along  a  lower  level  of  the  terraced 
plain,  hidden  by  the  grain,  not  twenty 
yards  away,  and  parallel  with  the  road  they 
were  now  ascending  to  join.  Their  figures 
were  alike  formless  in  long  striped  serapes, 
and  their  features  undistinguishable  under 
stiff  black  sombreros. 

"  Buenas  noches,  senor,"  said  the  second 
voice,  in  formal  and  cautious  deliberation. 

A  sudden  inspiration  made  Clarence  re 
spond  in  English,  as  if  he  had  not  compre 
hended  the  stranger's  words,  "Eh?  " 

"Gooda-nighta,"  repeated  the  stranger. 

"Oh,    good-night,"    returned    Clarence. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  61 

They  passed  him.  Their  spurs  tinkled 
twice  or  thrice,  their  mustangs  sprang  for 
ward,  and  the  next  moment  the  loose  folds 
of  their  scrapes  were  fluttering  at  their  sides 
like  wings  in  their  flight. 


62  SUSY: 


CHAPTER   IV. 

AFTER  the  chill  of  a  dewless  night  the 
morning  sun  was  apt  to  look  ardently  upon 
the  Robles  Rancho,  if  so  strong  an  expres 
sion  could  describe  the  dry,  oven -like  heat 
of  a  Californian  coast-range  valley.  Before 
ten  o'clock  the  adobe  wall  of  the  patio  was 
warm  enough  to  permit  lingering  vacqueros 
and  idle  peons  to  lean  against  it,  and  the 
exposed  annexe  was  filled  with  sharp,  resin 
ous  odors  from  the  oozing  sap  of  unseasoned 
"redwood"  boards,  warped  and  drying  in 
the  hot  sunshine.  Even  at  that  early  hour 
the  climbing  Castilian  roses  were  drooping 
against  the  wooden  columns  of  the  new 
veranda,  scarcely  older  than  themselves, 
and  mingling  an  already  faded  spice  with 
the  aroma  of  baking  wood  and  the  more 
material  fragrance  of  steaming  coffee,  that 
seemed  dominant  everywhere. 

In  fact,  the  pretty  breakfast-room,  whose 
three  broad  windows,  always  open,  to  the 
veranda,  gave  an  al  fresco  effect  to  every 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  63 

meal,  was  a  pathetic  endeavor  of  the  South 
ern-bred  Peyton  to  emulate  the  soft,  luxu 
rious,  and  open-air  indolence  of  his  native 
South,  in  a  climate  that  was  not  only  not 
tropical,  but  even  austere  in  its  most  fervid 
moments.  Yet,  although  cold  draughts  in 
vaded  it  from  the  rear  that  morning,  Judge 
Peyton  sat  alone,  between  the  open  doors 
and  windows,  awaiting  the  slow  coming  of 
his  wife  and  the  young  ladies.  He  was  not 
in  an  entirely  comfortable  mood  that  morn 
ing.  Things  were  not  going  on  well  at 
Robles.  That  truculent  vagabond,  Pedro, 
had,  the  night  before,  taken  himself  off  with 
a  curse  that  had  frightened  even  the  vac- 
queros,  who  most  hated  him  as  a  companion, 
but  who  now  seemed  inclined  to  regard  his 
absence  as  an  injury  done  to  their  race. 
Peyton,  uneasily  conscious  that  his  own 
anger  had  been  excited  by  an  exaggerated 
conception  of  the  accident,  was  now,  like 
most  obstinate  men,  inclined  to  exaggerate 
the  importance  of  Pedro's  insolence.  He 
was  well  out  of  it  to  get  rid  of  this  quarrel 
some  hanger-on,  whose  presumption  and  ill- 
humor  threatened  the  discipline  of  the 
rancho,  yet  he  could  not  entirely  forget  that 
he  had  employed  him  on  account  of  his  f am- 


64  BUST: 

ily  claims,  and  from  a  desire  to  placate 
racial  jealousy  and  settle  local  differences. 
For  the  inferior  Mexicans  and  Indian  half- 
breeds  still  regarded  their  old  masters  with 
affection ;  were,  in  fact,  more  concerned  for 
the  integrity  of  their  caste  than  the  masters 
were  themselves,  and  the  old  Spanish  fami 
lies  who  had  made  alliances  with  Ameri 
cans,  and  shared  their  land  with  them,  had 
rarely  succeeded  in  alienating  their  retainers 
with  their  lands.  Certain  experiences  in 
the  proving  of  his  grant  before  the  Land 
Commission  had  taught  Peyton  that  they 
were  not  to  be  depended  upon.  And  lately 
there  had  been  unpleasant  rumors  of  the 
discovery  of  some  unlooked-for  claimants  to 
a  division  of  the  grant  itself,  which  might 
affect  his  own  title. 

He  looked  up  quickly  as  voices  and  light 
steps  on  the  veranda  at  last  heralded  the 
approach  of  his  tardy  household  from  the 
corridor.  But,  in  spite  of  his  preoccupa 
tion,  he  was  startled  and  even  awkwardly 
impressed  with  a  change  in  Susy's  appear 
ance.  She  was  wearing,  for  the  first  time, 
a  long  skirt,  and  this  sudden  maturing  of 
her  figure  struck  him,  as  a  man,  much  more 
forcibly  than  it  would  probably  have  im- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  65 

pressed  a  woman,  more  familiar  with  de 
tails.  He  had  not  noticed  'certain  indica 
tions  of  womanhood,  as  significant,  perhaps, 
in  her  carriage  as  her  outlines,  which  had 
been  lately  perfectly  apparent  to  her  mother 
and  Mary,  but  which  were  to  him  now,  for 
the  first  time,  indicated  by  a  few  inches  of 
skirt.  She  not  only  looked  taller  to  his 
masculine  eyes,  but  these  few  inches  had 
added  to  the  mystery  as  well  as  the  drapery 
of  the  goddess ;  they  were  not  so  much  the 
revelation  of  maturity  as  the  suggestion  that 
it  was  hidden.  So  impressed  was  he,  that  a 
half -serious  lecture  on  her  yesterday's  child 
ishness,  the  outcome  of  his  irritated  reflec 
tions  that  morning,  died  upon  his  lips.  He 
felt  he  was  no  longer  dealing  with  a  child. 

He  welcomed  them  with  that  smile  of 
bantering  approbation,  supposed  to  keep 
down  inordinate  vanity,  which  for  some 
occult  reason  one  always  reserves  for  the 
members  of  one's  own  family.  He  was 
quite  conscious  that  Susy  was  looking  very 
pretty  in  this  new  and  mature  frock,  and 
that  as  she  stood  beside  his  wife,  far  from 
ageing  Mrs.  Peyton's  good  looks  and  figure, 
she  appeared  like  an  equal  companion,  and 
that  they  mutually  "became"  one  another. 


66  3USY: 

This,  and  the  fact  that  they  were  all,  includ 
ing  Mary  Rogers,  in  their  freshest,  gayest 
morning  dresses,  awakened  a  half -humor 
ous,  half -real  apprehension  in  his  mind,  that 
he  was  now  hopelessly  surrounded  by  a  ma 
tured  sex,  and  in  a  weak  minority. 

"I  think  I  ought  to  have  been  prepared," 
he  began  grimly,  "for  this  addition  to  —  to 
—  the  skirts  of  my  family." 

"Why,  John,"  returned  Mrs.  Peyton 
quickly;  "do  you  mean  to  say  you  haven't 
noticed  that  the  poor  child  has  for  weeks 
been  looking  positively  indecent?" 

"Really,  papa,  I've  been  a  sight  to  be 
hold.  Haven't  I,  Mary?"  chimed  in  Susy. 

"Yes,  dear.  Why,  Judge,  I  've  been 
wondering  that  Susy  stood  it  so  well,  and 
never  complained." 

Peyton  glanced  around  him  at  this  com 
pact  feminine  embattlement.  It  was  as  he 
feared.  Yet  even  here  he  was  again  at 
fault. 

"And,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton  slowly,  with 
the  reserved  significance  of  the  feminine 
postscript  in  her  voice,  "if  that  Mr.  Brant 
is  coming  here  to-day,  it  would  be  just  as 
well  for  him  to  see  that  she  is  no  linger  a 
child,  as  when  he  knew  her." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  67 

An  hour  later,  good-natured  Mary  Rog 
ers,  in  her  character  of  "a  dear,"  —  which 
was  usually  indicated  by  the  undertaking  of 
small  errands  for  her  friend,  —  was  gather 
ing  roses  from  the  old  garden  for  Susy's 
adornment,  when  she  saw  a  vision  which  lin 
gered  with  her  for  many  a  day.  She  had 
stopped  to  look  through  the  iron  grille  in 
the  adobe  wall,  across  the  open  wind-swept 
plain.  Miniature  waves  were  passing  over 
the  wild  oats,  with  glittering  disturbances 
here  and  there  in  the  depressions  like  the 
sparkling  of  green  foam;  the  horizon  line 
was  sharply  defined  against  the  hard,  steel- 
blue  sky ;  everywhere  the  brand-new  morn 
ing  was  shining  with  almost  painted  bril 
liancy  ;  the  vigor,  spirit,  and  even  crudeness 
of  youth  were  over  all.  The  young  girl 
was  dazzled  and  bewildered.  Suddenly,  as 
if  blown  out  of  the  waving  grain,  or  an  in 
carnation  of  the  vivid  morning,  the  bright 
and  striking  figure  of  a  youthful  horseman 
flashed  before  the  grille.  It  was  Clarence 
Brant !  Mary  Rogers  had  always  seen  him, 
in  the  loyalty  of  friendship,  with  Susy's 
prepossessed  eyes,  yet  she  fancied  that 
morning  that  he  had  never  looked  so  hand 
some  before.  Even  the  foppish  fripperies 


68  SUSY: 

of  his  riding-dress  and  silver  trappings 
seemed  as  much  the  natural  expression  of 
conquering  youth  as  the  invincible  morning 
sunshine.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been  a 
reaction  against  Susy's  caprice  or  some  la 
tent  susceptibility  of  her  own ;  but  a  momen 
tary  antagonism  to  her  friend  stirred  even 
her  kindly  nature.  What  right  had  Susy 
to  trifle  with  such  an  opportunity?  Who 
was  she  to  hesitate  over  this  gallant  prince? 

But  Prince  Charming 's  quick  eyes  had 
detected  her,  and  the  next  moment  his 
beautiful  horse  was  beside  the  grating,  and 
his  ready  hand  of  greeting  extended  through 
the  bars. 

"I  suppose  I  am  early  and  unexpected, 
but  I  slept  at  Santa  Inez  last  night,  that  I 
might  ride  over  in  the  cool  of  the  morning. 
My  things  are  coming  by  the  stage-coach, 
later.  It  seemed  such  a  slow  way  of  com 
ing  one's  self." 

Mary  Rogers 's  black  eyes  intimated  that 
the  way  he  had  taken  was  the  right  one,  but 
she  gallantly  recovered  herself  and  remem 
bered  her  position  as  confidante.  And  here 
was  the  opportunity  of  delivering  Susy's 
warning  unobserved.  She  withdrew  her 
hand  from  Clarence's  frank  grasp,  and  pass- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  69 

ing  it  through  the  grating,  patted  the  sleek, 
shining  flanks  of  his  horse,  with  a  discreet 
division  of  admiration. 

"  And  such  a  lovely  creature,  too !  And 
Susy  will  be  so  delighted!  and  oh,  Mr. 
Brant,  please,  you  're  to  say  nothing  of 
having  met  her  at  Santa  Clara.  It 's  just 
as  well  not  to  begin  with  that  here,  for,  you 
see  "  (with  a  large,  maternal  manner),  "you 
were  both  so  young  then." 

Clarence  drew  a  quick  breath.  It  was 
the  first  check  to  his  vision  of  independence 
and  equal  footing !  Then  his  invitation  was 
not  the  outcome  of  a  continuous  friendship 
revived  by  Susy,  as  he  had  hoped ;  the  Pey- 
tons  had  known  nothing  of  his  meeting  with 
her,  or  perhaps  they  would  not  have  invited 
him.  He  was  here  as  an  impostor,  —  and  all 
because  Susy  had  chosen  to  make  a  mystery 
of  a  harmless  encounter,  which  might  have 
been  explained,  and  which  they  might  have 
even  countenanced.  He  thought  bitterly  of 
his  old  playmate  for  a  brief  moment,  —  as 
brief  as  Mary's  antagonism.  The  young 
girl  noticed  the  change  in  his  face,  but  mis 
interpreted  it. 

"Oh,  there  's  no  danger  of  its  coming  out 
if  you  don't  say  anything,"  she  said, 


70  SU8Y: 

quickly.  "Hide  on  to  the  house,  and  don't 
wait  for  me.  You  '11  find  them  in  the  patio 
on  the  veranda." 

Clarence  moved  on,  but  not  as  spiritedly 
as  before.  Nevertheless  there  was  still  dash 
enough  about  him  and  the  animal  he  be 
strode  to  stir  into  admiration  the  few  loung 
ing  vacqueros  of  a  country  which  was  apt 
to  judge  the  status  of  a  rider  by  the  quality 
of  his  horse.  Nor  was  the  favorable  im 
pression  confined  to  them  alone.  Peyton's 
gratification  rang  out  cheerily  in  his  greet 
ing:— 

"  Bravo,  Clarence !  You  are  here  in  true 
caballero  style.  Thanks  for  the  compli 
ment  to  the  rancho." 

For  a  moment  the  young  man  was  trans 
ported  back  again  to  his  boyhood,  and 
once  more  felt  Peyton's  approving  hand 
pushing  back  the  worn  straw  hat  from  his 
childish  forehead.  A  faint  color  rose  to 
his  cheeks;  his  eyes  momentarily  dropped. 
The  highest  art  could  have  done  no  more ! 
The  slight  aggressiveness  of  his  youthful 
finery  and  picturesque  good  looks  was  con 
doned  at  once;  his  modesty  conquered 
where  self-assertion  might  have  provoked 
opposition,  and  even  Mrs.  Peyton  felt  her- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  71 

self  impelled  to  come  forward  with  an  out 
stretched  hand  scarcely  less  frank  than  her 
husband's.  Then  Clarence  lifted  his  eyes. 
He  saw  before  him  the  woman  to  whom  his 
childish  heart  had  gone  out  with  the  inscru 
table  longing  and  adoration  of  a  motherless, 
homeless,  companionless  boy;  the  woman 
who  had  absorbed  the  love  of  his  playmate 
without  sharing  it  with  him;  who  had 
showered  her  protecting  and  maternal  ca 
resses  on  Susy,  a  waif  like  himself,  yet  had 
not  only  left  his  heart  lonely  and  desolate, 
but  had  even  added  to  his  childish  distrust 
of  himself  the  thought  that  he  had  excited 
her  aversion.  He  saw  her  more  beautiful 
than  ever  in  her  restored  health,  freshness 
of  coloring,  and  mature  roundness  of  out 
line.  He  was  unconsciously  touched  with  a 
man's  admiration  for  her  without  losing  his 
boyish  yearnings  and  half -filial  affection; 
in  her  new  materialistic  womanhood  his 
youthful  imagination  had  lifted  her  to  a 
queen  and  goddess.  There  was  all  this 
appeal  in  his  still  boyish  eyes,  —  eyes  that 
had  never  yet  known  shame  or  fear  in  the 
expression  of  their  emotions ;  there  was  all 
this  in  the  gesture  with  which  he  lifted  Mrs. 
Peyton's  fingers  to  his  lips.  The  little 


72  SUSY: 

group  saw  in  this  act  only  a  Spanish  cour 
tesy  in  keeping  with  his  accepted  role.  But 
a  thrill  of  surprise,  of  embarrassment,  of 
intense  gratification  passed  over  her.  For 
he  had  not  even  looked  at  Susy ! 

Her  relenting  was  graceful.  She  wel 
comed  him  with  a  winning  smile.  Then 
she  motioned  pleasantly  towards  Susy. 

"But  here  is  an  older  friend,  Mr.  Brant, 
whom  you  do  not  seem  to  recognize,  — 
Susy,  whom  you  have  not  seen  since  she 
was  a  child." 

A  quick  flush  rose  to  Clarence's  cheek. 
The  group  smiled  at  this  evident  youthful 
confession  of  some  boyish  admiration.  But 
Clarence  knew  that  his  truthful  blood  was 
merely  resenting  the  deceit  his  lips  were 
sealed  from  divulging.  He  did  not  dare  to 
glance  at  Susy ;  it  added  to  the  general  amuse 
ment  that  the  young  girl  was  obliged  to  pre 
sent  herself.  But  in  this  interval  she  had 
exchanged  glances  with  Mary  Kogers,  who 
had  rejoined  the  group,  and  she  knew  she 
was  safe.  She  smiled  with  gracious  conde 
scension  at  Clarence;  observed,  with  the 
patronizing  superiority  of  age  and  estab 
lished  position,  that  he  had  grown,  but  had 
not  greatly  changed,  and,  it  is  needless  to 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  73 

say,  again  filled  her  mother's  heart  with 
joy.  Clarence,  still  intoxicated  with  Mrs. 
Peyton's  kindliness,  and,  perhaps,  still  em 
barrassed  by  remorse,  had  not  time  to  re 
mark  the  girl's  studied  attitude.  He  shook 
hands  with  her  cordially,  and  then,  in  the 
quick  reaction  of  youth,  accepted  with  hu 
morous  gravity  the  elaborate  introduction  to 
Mary  Rogers  by  Susy,  which  completed  this 
little  comedy.  And  if,  with  a  woman's 
quickness,  Mrs.  Peyton  detected  a  certain 
lingering  glance  which  passed  between  Mary 
Rogers  and  Clarence,  and  misinterpreted  it, 
it  was  only  a  part  of  that  mystification  into 
which  these  youthful  actors  are  apt  to  throw 
their  mature  audiences. 

"Confess,  Ally,"  said  Peyton,  cheerfully, 
as  the  three  young  people  suddenly  found 
their  tongues  with  aimless  vivacity  and  in 
consequent  laughter,  and  started  with  unin 
telligible  spirits  for  an  exploration  of  the 
garden,  "confess  now  that  your  bete  noir  is 
really  a  very  manly  as  well  as  a  very  pre 
sentable  young  fellow.  By  Jove !  the  padres 
have  made  a  Spanish  swell  out  of  him  with 
out  spoiling  the  Brant  grit,  either !  Come, 
now;  you're  not  afraid  that  Susy's  style 
will  suffer  from  his  companionship.  'Pon 


74  BUST: 

my  soul,  she  might  borrow  a  little  of  his 
courtesy  to  his  elders  without  indelicacy. 
I  only  wish  she  had  as  sincere  a  way  of 
showing  her  respect  for  you  as  he  has.  Did 
you  notice  that  he  really  did  n't  seem  to  see 
anybody  else  but  you  at  first?  And  yet 
you  never  were  a  friend  to  him,  like  Susy." 

The  lady  tossed  her  head  slightly,  but 
smiled. 

"This  is  the  first  time  he  's  seen  Mary 
Rogers,  is  n't  it?  "  she  said  meditatively. 

"I  reckon.  But  what 's  that  to  do  with 
his  politeness  to  you?" 

"And  do  her  parents  know  him?"  she 
continued,  without  replying. 

"How  do  I  know?  I  suppose  everybody 
has  heard  of  him.  Why  ?  " 

"Because  I  think  they've  taken  a  fancy 
to  each  other." 

"What  in  the  name  of  folly,  Ally"  — 
began  the  despairing  Peyton. 

"When  you  invite  a  handsome,  rich,  and 
fascinating  young  man  into  the  company  of 
young  ladies,  John,"  returned  Mrs.  Peyton, 
in  her  severest  manner,  "you  must  not  for 
get  you  owe  a  certain  responsibility  to  the 
parents.  I  shall  certainly  look  after  Miss 
Eogers." 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  75 


CHAPTER  V. 

ALTHOUGH  the  three  young  people  had 
left  the  veranda  together,  when  they 
reached  the  old  garden  Clarence  and  Susy 
found  themselves  considerably  in  advance 
of  Mary  Rogers,  who  had  become  suddenly 
and  deeply  interested  in  the  beauty  of  a 
passion  vine  near  the  gate.  At  the  first 
discovery  of  their  isolation  their  voluble  ex 
change  of  information  about  themselves  and 
their  occupations  since  their  last  meeting 
stopped  simultaneously.  Clarence,  who  had 
forgotten  his  momentary  irritation,  and  had 
recovered  his  old  happiness  in  her  presence, 
was  nevertheless  conscious  of  some  other 
change  in  her  than  that  suggested  by  the 
lengthened  skirt  and  the  later  and  more 
delicate  accentuation  of  her  prettiness.  It 
was  not  her  affectation  of  superiority  and 
older  social  experience,  for  that  was  only 
the  outcome  of  what  he  had  found  charming 
in  her  as  a  child,  and  which  he  still  good- 
humoredly  accepted ;  nor  was  it  her  charac- 


76  SUSY: 

teristic  exaggeration  of  speech,  which  he  still 
pleasantly  recognized.  It  was  something 
else,  vague  and  indefinite,  —  something  that 
had  been  unnoticed  while  Mary  was  with 
them,  but  had  now  come  between  them  like 
some  unknown  presence  which  had  taken 
the  confidante's  place.  He  remained  silent, 
looking  at  her  half -brightening  cheek  and 
conscious  profile.  Then  he  spoke  with  awk 
ward  directness. 

"You  are  changed,  Susy,  more  than  in 
looks." 

"Hush,  "said  the  girl  in  a  tragic  whisper, 
with  a  warning  gesture  towards  the  blandly 
unconscious  Mary. 

"But,"  returned  Clarence  wonderingly, 
"she  's  your  —  our  friend,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Susy,  in  a  still 
deeper  tone,  "that  is  —  oh,  don't  ask  me! 
But  when  you  're  always  surrounded  by 
spies,  when  you  can't  say  your  soul  is  your 
own,  you  doubt  everybody !  "  There  was 
such  a  pretty  distress  in  her  violet  eyes  and 
curving  eyebrows,  that  Clarence,  albeit 
vague  as  to  its  origin  and  particulars,  never 
theless  possessed  himself  of  the  little  hand 
that  was  gesticulating  dangerously  n£ar  his 
own,  and  pressed  it  sympathetically.  Per- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  77 

haps  preoccupied  with  her  emotions,  she 
did  not  immediately  withdraw  it,  as  she 
went  on  rapidly :  "  And  if  you  were  cooped 
up  here,  day  after  day,  behind  these  bars," 
pointing  to  the  grille,  "you  'd  know  what  I 
suffer." 

"But "  —  began  Clarence. 

"Hush! "  said  Susy,  with  a  stamp  of  her 
little  foot. 

Clarence,  who  had  only  wished  to  point 
out  that  the  whole  lower  end  of  the  garden 
wall  was  in  ruins  and  the  grille  really  was 
no  prevention,  "  hushed." 

"And  listen!  Don't  pay  me  much  atten 
tion  to-day,  but  talk  to  her,"  indicating  the 
still  discreet  and  distant  Mary,  "before 
father  and  mother.  Not  a  word  to  her  of 
this  confidence,  Clarence.  To-morrow  ride 
out  alone  on  your  beautiful  horse,  and  come 
back  by  way  of  the  woods,  beyond  our  turn 
ing,  at  four  o'clock.  There  's  a  trail  to  the 
right  of  the  big  madrono  tree.  Take  that. 
Be  careful  and  keep  a  good  lookout,  for  she 
mustn't  see  you." 

"Who  must  n't  see  me?  "  said  the  puzzled 
Clarence. 

"Why,  Mary,  of  course,  you  silly  boy!" 
returned  the  girl  impatiently.  "  She  '11  be 


78  SUS7: 

looking  for  me.  Go  now,  Clarence !  Stop ! 
Look  at  that  lovely  big  maiden's -blush  up 
there,"  pointing  to  a  pink-suffused  speci 
men  of  rose  grandiflora  hanging  on  the  wall. 
"  Get  it,  Clarence,  —  that  one,  —  I  '11  show 
you  where,  —  there!"  They  had  already 
plunged  into  the  leafy  bramble,  and,  stand 
ing  on  tiptoe,  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder 
and  head  upturned,  Susy's  cheek  had  inno 
cently  approached  Clarence's  own.  At  this 
moment  Clarence,  possibly  through  some 
confusion  of  color,  fragrance,  or  softness  of 
contact,  seemed  to  have  availed  himself  of 
the  opportunity,  in  a  way  which  caused  Susy 
to  instantly  rejoin  Mary  Kogers  with  affected 
dignity,  leaving  him  to  follow  a  few  mo 
ments  later  with  the  captured  flower. 

Without  trying  to  understand  the  reason 
of  to-morrow's  rendezvous,  and  perhaps  not 
altogether  convinced  of  the  reality  of  Susy's 
troubles,  he,  however,  did  not  find  that  dif 
ficulty  in  carrying  out  her  other  commands 
which  he  had  expected.  Mrs.  Peyton  was 
still  gracious,  and,  with  feminine  tact,  in 
duced  him  to  talk  of  himself,  until  she  was 
presently  in  possession  of  his  whole  history, 
barring  the  episode  of  his  meeting  with"Susy, 
since  he  had  parted  with  them.  He  felt  a 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  79 

strange  satisfaction  in  familiarly  pouring 
out  his  confidences  to  this  superior  woman, 
whom  he  had  always  held  in  awe.  There 
was  a  new  delight  in  her  womanly  interest 
in  his  trials  and  adventures,  and  a  subtle 
pleasure  even  in  her  half -motherly  criticism 
and  admonition  of  some  passages.  I  am 
afraid  he  forgot  Susy,  who  listened  with  the 
complacency  of  an  exhibitor;  Mary,  whose 
black  eyes  dilated  alternately  with  sympathy 
for  the  performer  and  deprecation  of  Mrs. 
Peyton's  critical  glances;  and  Peyton,  who, 
however,  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and  preoc 
cupied.  Clarence  was  happy.  The  softly 
shaded  lights  in  the  broad,  spacious,  com 
fortably  furnished  drawing-room  shone  on 
the  group  before  him.  It  was  a  picture  of 
refined  domesticity  which  the  homeless  Clar 
ence  had  never  known  except  as  a  vague, 
half -painful,  boyish  remembrance ;  it  was  a 
realization  of  welcome  that  far  exceeded  his 
wildest  boyish  vision  of  the  preceding  night. 
With  that  recollection  came  another,  —  a 
more  uneasy  one.  He  remembered  how  that 
vision  had  been  interrupted  by  the  strange 
voices  in  the  road,  and  their  vague  but 
ominous  import  to  his  host.  A  feeling  of 
self-reproach  came  over  him.  The  threats 


80  SUSY: 

had  impressed  him  as  only  mere  bragga 
docio,  —  he  knew  the  characteristic  exag 
geration  of  the  race,  —  but  perhaps  he  ought 
to  privately  tell  Peyton  of  the  incident  at 
once. 

The  opportunity  came  later,  when  the 
ladies  had  retired,  and  Peyton,  wrapped  in 
a  poncho  in  a  rocking-chair,  on  the  now 
chilly  veranda,  looked  up  from  his  reverie 
and  a  cigar.  Clarence  casually  introduced 
the  incident,  as  if  only  for  the  sake  of  de 
scribing  the  supernatural  effect  of  the  hid 
den  voices,  but  he  was  concerned  to  see 
that  Peyton  was  considerably  disturbed  by 
their  more  material  import.  After  ques 
tioning  him  as  to  the  appearance  of  the  two 
men,  his  host  said:  "I  don't  -mind  telling 
you,  Clarence,  that  as  far  as  that  fellow's 
intentions  go  he  is  quite  sincere,  although 
his  threats  are  only  borrowed  thunder.  He 
is  a  man  whom  I  have  just  dismissed  for 
carelessness  and  insolence,  —  two  things 
that  run  in  double  harness  in  this  country, 
—  but  I  should  be  more  afraid  to  find  him 
at  my  back  on  a  dark  night,  alone  on  the 
plains,  than  to  confront  him  in  daylight,  in 
the  witness  box,  against  me.  He  wSs  only 
repeating  a  silly  rumor  that  the  title  to  this 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  81 

rancho  and  the  nine  square  leagues  beyond 
would  be  attacked  by  some  speculators." 

"But  I  thought  your  title  was  confirmed 
two  years  ago,"  said  Clarence. 

"The  grant  was  confirmed,"  returned 
Peyton,  "which  means  that  the  conveyance 
of  the  Mexican  government  of  these  lands 
to  the  ancestor  of  Victor  Robles  was  held 
to  be  legally  proven  by  the  United  States 
Land  Commission,  and  a  patent  issued  to 
all  those  who  held  under  it.  I  and  my 
neighbors  hold  under  it  by  purchase  from 
Victor  Robles,  subject  to  the  confirmation 
of  the  Land  Commission.  But  that  confir 
mation  was  only  of  Victor's  great-grand 
father's  title,  and  it  is  now  alleged  that  as 
Victor's  father  died  without  making  a  will, 
Victor  has  claimed  and  disposed  of  property 
which  he  ought  to  have  divided  with  his  sis 
ters.  At  least,  some  speculating  rascals  in 
San  Francisco  have  set  up  what  they  call 
'the  Sisters'  title,'  and  are  selling  it  to  ac 
tual  settlers  on  the  unoccupied  lands  beyond. 
As,  by  the  law,  it  would  hold  possession 
against  the  mere  ordinary  squatters,  whose 
only  right  is  based,  as  you  know,  on  the 
presumption  that  there  is  no  title  claimed , 
it  gives  the  possessor  immunity  to  enjoy  the 


82  SUSY: 

use  of  the  property  until  the  case  is  decided, 
and  even  should  the  original  title  hold  good 
against  his,  the  successful  litigant  would 
probably  be  willing  to  pay  for  improve 
ments  and  possession  to  save  the  expensive 
and  tedious  process  of  ejectment." 

"But  this  does  not  affect  you>  who  have 
already  possession?"  said  Clarence  quickly. 

"No,  not  as  far  as  this  house  and  the 
lands  I  actually  occupy  and  cultivate  are 
concerned ;  and  they  know  that  I  am  safe  to 
fight  to  the  last,  and  carry  the  case  to  the 
Supreme  Court  in  that  case,  until  the  swin 
dle  is  exposed,  or  they  drop  it ;  but  I  may 
have  to  pay  them  something  to  keep  the 
squatters  off  my  unoccupied  land." 

"But  you  surely  would  n't  recognize  those 
rascals  in  any  way?"  said  the  astonished 
Clarence. 

"As  against  other  rascals?  Why  not?" 
returned  Peyton  grimly.  "I  only  pay  for 
the  possession  which  their  sham  title  gives 
me  to  my  own  land.  If  by  accident  that 
title  obtains,  I  am  still  on  the  safe  side." 
After  a  pause  he  said,  more  gravely,  "  What 
you  overheard,  Clarence,  shows  me  that  the 
plan  is  more  forward  than  I  had  imagined, 
and  that  I  may  have  to  fight  traitors  here." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  83 

"I  hope,  sir,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  quick 
glow  in  his  earnest  face,  "that  you  '11  let 
me  help  you.  You  thought  I  did  once,  you 
remember,  — with  the  Indians." 

There  was  so  much  of  the  old  Clarence 
in  his  boyish  appeal  and  eager,  questioning 
face  that  Peyton,  who  had  been  talking  to 
him  as  a  younger  but  equal  man  of  affairs, 
was  startled  into  a  smile.  "You  did,  Clar 
ence,  though  the  Indians  butchered  your 
friends,  after  all.  I  don't  know,  though, 
but  that  your  experiences  with  those  Span 
iards  —  you  must  have  known  a  lot  of  them 
when  you  were  with  Don  Juan  Eobinson 
and  at  the  college  —  might  be  of  service  in 
getting  at  evidence,  or  smashing  their  wit 
nesses  if  it  comes  to  a  fight.  But  just  now, 
money  is  everything.  They  must  be  bought 
off  the  land  if  I  have  to  mortgage  it  for  the 
purpose.  That  strikes  you  as  a  rather  he 
roic  remedy,  Clarence,  eh? "he  continued, 
in  his  old,  half-bantering  attitude  towards 
Clarence's  inexperienced  youth,  "don't  it?  " 

But  Clarence  was  not  thinking  of  that. 
Another  more  audacious  but  equally  youth 
ful  and  enthusiastic  idea  had  taken  posses 
sion  of  his  mind,  and  he  lay  awake  half  that 
night  revolving  it.  It  was  true  that  it  was 


84  SUSY: 

somewhat  impractically  mixed  with  his 
visions  of  Mrs.  Peyton  and  Susy,  and  even 
included  his  previous  scheme  of  relief  for 
the  improvident  and  incorrigible  Hooker. 
But  it  gave  a  wonderful  sincerity  and  hap 
piness  to  his  slumbers  that  night,  which  the 
wiser  and  elder  Peyton  might  have  envied, 
and  I  wot  not  was  in  the  long  run  as  correct 
and  sagacious  as  Peyton's  sleepless  cogita 
tions.  And  in  the  early  morning  Mr.  Clar 
ence  Brant,  the  young  capitalist,  sat  down 
to  his  traveling-desk  and  wrote  two  clear 
headed,  logical,  and  practical  business  let 
ters,  —  one  to  his  banker,  and  the  other  to 
his  former  guardian,  Don  Juan  Robinson,  — 
as  his  first  step  in  a  resolve  that  was,  nev 
ertheless,  perhaps  as  wildly  quixotic  and 
enthusiastic  as  any  dream  his  boyish  and 
unselfish  heart  had  ever  indulged. 

At  breakfast,  in  the  charmed  freedom  of 
the  domestic  circle,  Clarence  forgot  Susy's 
capricious  commands  of  yesterday,  and  be 
gan  to  address  himself  to  her  in  his  old  ear 
nest  fashion,  until  he  was  warned  by  a  sig 
nificant  knitting  of  the  young  lady's  brows 
and  monosyllabic  responses.  But  in  his 
youthful  loyalty  to  Mrs.  Peyton^  fee  was 
more  pained  to  notice  Susy's  occasional  un- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  85 

conscious  indifference  to  her  adopted  mo 
ther's  affectionate  expression,  and  a  more 
conscious  disregard  of  her  wishes.  So 
uneasy  did  he  become,  in  his  sensitive  con 
cern  for  Mrs.  Peyton's  half -concealed  mor 
tification,  that  he  gladly  accepted  Peyton's 
offer  to  go  with  him  to  visit  the  farm  and 
corral.  As  the  afternoon  approached,  with 
another  twinge  of  self  -  reproach,  he  was 
obliged  to  invent  some  excuse  to  decline 
certain  hospitable  plans  of  Mrs.  Peyton's 
for  his  entertainment,  and  at  half  past  three 
stole  somewhat  guiltily,  with  his  horse,  from 
the  stables.  But  he  had  to  pass  before  the 
outer  wall  of  the  garden  and  grille,  through 
which  he  had  seen  Mary  the  day  before. 
Raising  his  eyes  mechanically,  he  was  star 
tled  to  see  Mrs.  Peyton  standing  behind  the 
grating,  with  her  abstracted  gaze  fixed  upon 
the  wind  -  tossed,  level  grain  beyond  her. 
She  smiled  as  she  saw  him,  but  there  were 
traces  of  tears  in  her  proud,  handsome  eyes. 

"You  are  going  to  ride?  "  she  said  plea 
santly. 

"Y-e-es,"  stammered  the  shamefaced 
Clarence. 

She  glanced  at  him  wistfully. 

"You  are  right.     The   girls   have  gone 


86  SUSY: 

away  by  themselves.  Mr.  Peyton  has  ridden 
over  to  Santa  Inez  on  this  dreadful  land 
business,  and  I  suppose  you  'd  have  found 
him  a  dull  riding  companion.  It  is  rather 
stupid  here.  I  quite  envy  you,  Mr.  Brant, 
your  horse  and  your  freedom." 

"But,  Mrs.  Peyton,"  broke  in  Clarence, 
impulsively,  "you  have  a  horse  —  I  saw  it,  a 
lovely  lady's  horse  —  eating  its  head  off  in 
the  stable.  Won't  you  let  me  run  back  and 
order  it;  and  won't  you,  please,  come  out 
with  me  for  a  good,  long  gallop?" 

He  meant  what  he  said.  He  had  spoken 
quickly,  impulsively,  but  with  the  perfect 
understanding  in  his  own  mind  that  his 
proposition  meant  the  complete  abandon 
ment  of  his  rendezvous  with  Susy.  Mrs. 
Peyton  was  astounded  and  slightly  stirred 
with  his  earnestness,  albeit  unaware  of  all 
it  implied. 

"It's  a  great  temptation,  Mr.  Brant," 
she  said,  with  a  playful  smile,  which  dazzled 
Clarence  with  its  first  faint  suggestion  of  a 
refined  woman's  coquetry;  "but  I  'm  afraid 
that  Mr.  Peyton  would  think  me  going  mad 
in  my  old  age.  No.  Go  on  and  enjoy  your 
gallop,  and  if  you  should  see  those*  giddy 
girls  anywhere,  send  them  home  early  for 
chocolate,  before  the  cold  wind  gets  up." 


A   STOUT  OF  THE  PLAINS.  87 

She  turned,  waved  her  slim  white  hand 
playfully  in  acknowledgment  of  Clarence's 
bared  head,  and  moved  away. 

For  the  first  few  moments  the  young  man 
tried  to  find  relief  in  furious  riding,  and  in 
bullying  his  spirited  horse.  Then  he  pulled 
quickly  up.  What  was  he  doing?  What 
was  he  going  to  do  ?  What  foolish,  vapid 
deceit  was  this  that  he  was  going  to  practice 
upon  that  noble,  queenly,  confiding,  gener 
ous  woman?  (He  had  already  forgotten 
that  she  had  always  distrusted  him.)  What 
a  fool  he  was  not  to  tell  her  half -jokingly 
that  he  expected  to  meet  Susy !  But  would 
he  have  dared  to  talk  half -jokingly  to  such 
a  woman  on  such  a  topic  ?  And  would  it 
have  been  honorable  without  disclosing  the 
whole  truth,  —  that  they  had  met  secretly 
before?  And  was  it  fair  to  Susy?  —  dear, 
innocent,  childish  Susy!  Yet  something 
must  be  done!  It  was  such  trivial,  pur 
poseless  deceit,  after  all;  for  this  noble 
woman,  Mrs.  Peyton,  so  kind,  so  gentle, 
would  never  object  to  his  loving  Susy  and 
marrying  her.  And  they  would  all  live 
happily  together;  and  Mrs.  Peyton  would 
never  be  separated  from  them,  but  always 
beaming  tenderly  upon  them  as  she  did  just 


88  SUSY: 

now  in  the  garden.  Yes,  lie  would  have  a 
serious  understanding  with  Susy,  and  that 
would  excuse  the  clandestine  meeting  to-day. 
His  rapid  pace,  meantime,  had  brought 
him  to  the  imperceptible  incline  of  the  ter 
race,  and  he  was  astonished,  in  turning  in 
the  saddle,  to  find  that  the  casa,  corral,  and 
outbuildings  had  completely  vanished,  and 
that  behind  him  rolled  only  the  long  sea  of 
grain,  which  seemed  to  have  swallowed  them 
in  its  yellowing  depths.  Before  him  lay 
the  wooded  ravine  through  which  the  stage 
coach  passed,  which  was  also  the  entrance  to 
the  rancho,  and  there,  too,  probably,  was  the 
turning  of  which  Susy  had  spoken.  But  it 
was  still  early  for  the  rendezvous ;  indeed, 
he  was  in  no  hurry  to  meet  her  in  his  pres 
ent  discontented  state,  and  he  made  a  list 
less  circuit  of  the  field,  in  the  hope  of  dis 
covering  the  phenomena  that  had  caused  the 
rancho 's  mysterious  disappearance.  When 
he  had  found  that  it  was  the  effect  of  the 
different  levels,  his  attention  was  arrested 
by  a  multitude  of  moving  objects  in  a  still 
more  distant  field,  which  proved  to  be  a 
band  of  wild  horses.  In  and  out  among 
them,  circling  aimlessly,  as  it  seemed  to 
him,  appeared  two  horsemen  apparently 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  89 

performing  some  mystic  evolution.  To  add 
to  their  singular  performance,  from  time  to 
time  one  of  the  flying  herd,  driven  by  the 
horsemen  far  beyond  the  circle  of  its  com 
panions,  dropped  suddenly  and  unaccount 
ably  in  full  career.  The  field  closed  over 
it  as  if  it  had  been  swallowed  up.  In  a  few 
moments  it  appeared  again,  trotting  peace 
fully  behind  its  former  pursuer.  It  was  some 
time  before  Clarence  grasped  the  meaning 
of  this  strange  spectacle.  Although  the 
clear,  dry  atmosphere  sharply  accented  the 
silhouette  -  like  outlines  of  the  men  and 
horses,  so  great  was  the  distance  that  the 
slender  forty -foot  lasso,  which  in  the  skill 
ful  hands  of  the  horsemen  had  effected  these 
captures,  was  completely  invisible!  The 
horsemen  were  Peyton's  vacqueros,  making 
a  selection  from  the  young  horses  for  the 
market.  He  remembered  now  that  Peyton 
had  told  him  that  he  might  be  obliged  to 
raise  money  by  sacrificing  some  of  his  stock, 
and  the  thought  brought  back  Clarence's  un 
easiness  as  he  turned  again  to  the  trail.  In 
deed,  he  was  hardly  in  the  vein  for  a  gentle 
tryst,  as  he  entered  the  wooded  ravine  to 
seek  the  madrono  tree  which  was  to  serve 
as  a  guide  to  his  lady's  bower. 


90  SUSY: 

A  few  rods  further,  under  the  cool  vault 
filled  with  woodland  spicing,  he  came  upon 
it.  In  its  summer  harlequin  dress  of  scar 
let  and  green,  with  hanging  bells  of  poly- 
tinted  berries,  like  some  personified  sylvan 
Folly,  it  seemed  a  fitting  symbol  of  Susy's 
childish  masquerade  of  passion.  Its  bizarre 
beauty,  so  opposed  to  the  sober  gravity  of 
the  sedate  pines  and  hemlocks,  made  it 
an  unmistakable  landmark.  Here  he  dis 
mounted  and  picketed  his  horse.  And  here, 
beside  it,  to  the  right,  ran  the  little  trail 
crawling  over  mossy  boulders;  a  narrow 
yellow  track  through  the  carpet  of  pine 
needles  between  the  closest  file  ef  trees ;  an 
almost  imperceptible  streak  across  pools  of 
chickweed  at  their  roots,  and  a  brown  and 
ragged  swath  through  the  ferns.  As  he 
went  on,  the  anxiety  and  uneasiness  that  had 
possessed  him  gave  way  to  a  languid  intoxi 
cation  of  the  senses;  the  mysterious  seclu 
sion  of  these  woodland  depths  recovered  the 
old  influence  they  had  exerted  over  his  boy 
hood.  He  was  not  returning  to  Susy,  as 
much  as  to  the  older  love  of  his  youth,  of 
which  she  was,  perhaps,  only  an  incident. 
It  was  therefore  with  an  odd  boyish*thrill 
again  that,  coming  suddenly  upon  a  little 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  91 

hollow,  like  a  deserted  nest,  where  the  lost 
trail  made  him  hesitate,  he  heard  the  crackle 
of  a  starched  skirt  behind  him,  was  con 
scious  of  the  subtle  odor  of  freshly  ironed 
and  scented  muslin, and  felt  the  gentle  pres 
sure  of  delicate  fingers  upon  his  eyes. 

"Susy!" 

"You  silly  boy!  Where  were  you  blun 
dering  to?  Why  didn't  you  look  around 
you?" 

"I  thought  I  would  hear  your  voices." 

"Whose  voices,  idiot?" 

"Yours  and  Mary's,"  returned  Clarence 
innocently,  looking  round  for  the  confidante. 

"Oh,  indeed!  Then  you  wanted  to  see 
Mary  ?  Well,  she  's  looking  for  me  some 
where.  Perhaps  you  '11  go  and  find  her,  or 
shall  I?" 

She  was  offering  to  pass  him  when  he  laid 
his  hand  on  hers  to  detain  her.  She  in 
stantly  evaded  it,  and  drew  herself  up  to  her 
full  height,  incontestably  displaying  the 
dignity  of  the  added  inches  to  her  skirt. 
All  this  was  charmingly  like  the  old  Susy, 
but  it  did  not  bid  fair  to  help  him  to  a  seri 
ous  interview.  And,  looking  at  the  pretty, 
pink,  mocking  face  before  him,  with  the 
witchery  of  the  woodland  still  upon  him, 


92  SUSY: 

he  began  to  think  that  he  had  better  put 
it  off. 

"  Never  mind  about  Mary,"  he  said  laugh 
ingly.  "But  you  said  you  wanted  to  see 
me,  Susy ;  and  here  I  am." 

"Said  I  wanted  to  see  you?"  repeated 
Susy,  with  her  blue  eyes  lifted  in  celestial 
scorn  and  wonderment.  "Said  /  wanted 
to  see  you?  Are  you  not  mistaken,  Mr. 
Brant?  Really,  I  imagined  that  you  came 
here  to  see  me." 

With  her  fair  head  upturned,  and  the  leaf 
of  her  scarlet  lip  temptingly  curled  over, 
Clarence  began  to  think  this  latest  phase  of 
her  extravagance  the  most  fascinating.  He 
drew  nearer  to  her  as  he  said  gently,  "You 
know  what  I  mean,  Susy.  You  said  yester 
day  you  were  troubled.  I  thought  you 
might  have  something  to  tell  me." 

"I  should  think  it  was  you  who  might 
have  something  to  tell  me  after  all  these 
years,"  she  said  poutingly,  yet  self-pos 
sessed.  "But  I  suppose  you  came  here  only 
to  see  Mary  and  mother.  I  'm  sure  you  let 
them  know  that  plainly  enough  last  even- 
ing." 

"But  you  said" — began  the  stupefied 
Clarence. 


A  8TORT  OF  THE  PLAINS.  93 

"Never  mind  what  /  said.  It's  always 
what  /  say,  never  what  you  say;  and  you 
don't  say  anything." 

The  woodland  influence  must  have  been 
still  very  strong  upon  Clarence  that  he  did 
not  discover  in  all  this  that,  while  Susy's 
general  capriciousness  was  unchanged,  there 
was  a  new  and  singular  insincerity  in  her 
manifest  acting.  She  was  either  concealing 
the  existence  of  some  other  real  emotion,  or 
assuming  one  that  was  absent.  But  he  did 
not  notice  it,  and  only  replied  tenderly :  — 

"But  I  want  to  say  a  great  deal  to  you, 
Susy.  I  want  to  say  that  if  you  still  feel 
as  I  do,  and  as  I  have  always  felt,  and  you 
think  you  could  be  happy  as  I  would  be  if 
—  if  —  we  could  be  always  together,  we 
need  not  conceal  it  from  your  mother  and 
father  any  longer.  I  am  old  enough  to 
speak  for  myself,  and  I  am  my  own  master. 
Your  mother  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  — 
so  kind  that  it  doesn't  seem  quite  right  to 
deceive  her,  —  and  when  I  tell  her  that  I 
love  you,  and  that  I  want  you  to  be  my 
wife,  I  believe  she  will  give  us  her  bless- 
ing." 

Susy  uttered  a  strange  little  laugh,  and 
with  an  assumption  of  coyness,  that  was, 


94  SUSY: 

however,  still  affected,  stooped  to  pick  a  few 
berries  from  a  manzanita  bush. 

"I  '11  tell  you  what  she  '11  say,  Clarence. 
She  '11  say  you  're  frightfully  young,  and  so 
you  are ! " 

The  young  fellow  tried  to  echo  the  laugh, 
but  felt  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow.  For 
the  first  time  he  was  conscious  of  the  truth : 
this  girl,  whom  he  had  fondly  regarded  as 
a  child,  had  already  passed  him  in  the  race ; 
she  had  become  a  woman  before  he  was  yet 
a  man,  and  now  stood  before  him,  maturer 
in  her  knowledge,  and  older  in  her  under 
standing,  of  herself  and  of  him.  This  was 
the  change  that  had  perplexed  him ;  this  was 
the  presence  that  had  come  between  them, 
—  a  Susy  he  had  never  known  before. 

She  laughed  at  his  changed  expression, 
and  then  swung  herself  easily  to  a  sitting 
posture  on  the  low  projecting  branch  of  a 
hemlock.  The  act  was  still  girlish,  but, 
nevertheless,  she  looked  down  upon  him  in 
a  superior,  patronizing  way.  "Now,  Clar 
ence,"  she  said,  with  a  half -abstracted  man 
ner,  "don't  you  be  a  big  fool!  If  you  talk 
that  way  to  mother,  she  '11  only  tell  you  to 
wait  two  or  three  years  until  you*know 
your  own  mind,  and  she  '11  pack  me  off  to 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  95 

that  horrid  school  again,  besides  watching 
me  like  a  cat  every  moment  you  are  here. 
If  you  want  to  stay  here,  and  see  me  some 
times  like  this,  you  '11  just  behave  as  you 
have  done,  and  say  nothing.  Do  you  see  ? 
Perhaps  you  don't  care  to  come,  or  are  sat 
isfied  with  Mary  and  mother.  Say  so,  then. 
Goodness  knows,  I  don't  want  to  force  you 
to  come  here." 

Modest  and  reserved  as  Clarence  was 
generally,  I  fear  that  bashfulness  of  ap 
proach  to  the  other  sex  was  not  one  of  these 
indications.  He  walked  up  to  Susy  with 
appalling  directness,  and  passed  his  arm 
around  her  waist.  She  did  not  move,  but 
remained  looking  at  him  and  his  intruding 
arm  with  a  certain  critical  curiosity,  as  if 
awaiting  some  novel  sensation.  At  which 
he  kissed  her.  She  then  slowly  disengaged 
his  arm,  and  said :  — 

"Really,  upon  my  word,  Clarence,"  in 
perfectly  level  tones,  and  slipped  quietly  to 
the  ground. 

He  again  caught  her  in  his  arms,  encir 
cling  her  disarranged  hair  and  part  of  the 
beribboned  hat  hanging  over  her  shoul 
der,  and  remained  for  an  instant  holding 
her  thus  silently  and  tenderly.  Then  she 


96  BUST: 

freed  herself  with  an  abstracted  air,  a  half 
smile,  and  an  unchanged  color  except  where 
her  soft  cheek  had  been  abraded  by  his  coat 
collar. 

"You're  a  bold,  rude  boy,  Clarence," 
she  said,  putting  back  her  hair  quietly,  and 
straightening  the  brim  of  her  hat.  "  Heaven 
knows  where  you  learned  manners ! "  and 
then,  from  a  safer  distance,  with  the  same 
critical  look  in  her  violet  eyes,  "I  suppose 
you  think  mother  would  allow  that  if  she 
knew  it?" 

But  Clarence,  now  completely  subjugated, 
with  the  memory  of  the  kiss  upon  him  and 
a  heightened  color,  protested  that  he  only 
wanted  to  make  their  intercourse  less  con 
strained,  and  to  have  their  relations,  even 
their  engagement,  recognized  by  her  par 
ents;  still  he  would  take  her  advice.  Only 
there  was  always  the  danger  that  if  they 
were  discovered  she  would  be  sent  back  to 
the  convent  all  the  same,  and  his  banish 
ment,  instead  of  being  the  probation  of  a 
few  years,  would  be  a  perpetual  separation. 

"We  could  always  run  away,  Clarence," 
responded  the  young  girl  calmly.  "  There  's 
nothing  the  matter  with  that." 

Clarence  was  startled.     The  idea  of  deso- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  97 

lating  the  sad,  proud,  handsome  Mrs.  Pey 
ton,  whom  he  worshiped,  and  her  kind  hus 
band,  whom  he  was  just  about  to  serve,  was 
so  grotesque  and  confusing,  that  he  said 
hopelessly,  "Yes." 

"Of  course,"  she  continued,  with  the 
same  odd  affectation  of  coyness,  which  was, 
however,  distinctly  uncalled  for,  as  she  eyed 
him  from  under  her  broad  hat,  "you  need  n't 
come  with  me  unless  you  like.  I  can  run 
away  by  myself,  —  if  I  want  to !  I  've 
thought  of  it  before.  One  can't  stand 
everything! " 

"But,  Susy,"  said  Clarence,  with  a  swift 
remorseful  recollection  of  her  confidence 
yesterday,  "is  there  really  anything  trou 
bles  you?  Tell  me,  dear.  What  is  it?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  —  everything  !  It  's  no 
use,  —  you  can't  understand !  You  like  it,  I 
know  you  do.  I  can  see  it;  it 's  your  style. 
But  it's  stupid,  it's  awful,  Clarence! 
With  mamma  snooping  over  you  and  around 
you  all  day,  with  her  'dear  child,'  'mam- 
ma'spet,'  and  'What  is  it,  dear?  '  and  'Tell 
it  all  to  your  own  mamma, '  —  as  if  I  would ! 
And  'my  own  mamma,'  indeed!  As  if  I 
did  n't  know,  Clarence,  that  she  is  n't. 
And  papa,  caring  for  nothing  but  this  hid- 


98  SUSY: 

ecus,  dreary  rancho,  and  the  huge,  empty 
plains.  It 's  worse  than  school,  for  there, 
at  least,  when  you  went  out,  you  could  see 
something  besides  cattle  and  horses  and  yel 
low-faced  half-breeds !  But  here  —  Lord ! 
it 's  only  a  wonder  I  have  n't  run  away 
before!" 

Startled  and  shocked  as  Clarence  was  at 
this  revelation,  accompanied  as  it  was  by  a 
hardness  of  manner  that  was  new  to  him, 
the  influence  of  the  young  girl  was  still 
so  strong  upon  him  that  he  tried  to  evade 
it  as  only  an  extravagance,  and  said  with 
a  faint  smile,  "But  where  would  you  run 
to?" 

She  looked  at  him  cunningly,  with  her 
head  on  one  side,  and  then  said :  — 

"I  have  friends,  and  "  — 

She  hesitated,  pursing  up  her  pretty  lips. 

"And  what?" 

"Kelations." 

"Eelations?" 

"  Yes,  —  an  aunt  by  marriage.  She  lives 
in  Sacramento.  She'd  be  overjoyed  to 
have  me  come  to  her.  Her  second  husband 
has  a  theatre  there." 

"But,  Susy,  what  does  Mrs.  Peyton  know 
of  this?" 


A  STORY  OF  TEE  PLAINS.  99 

"Nothing.  Do  you  think  I'd  tell  her, 
and  have  her  buy  them  up  as  she  has  my 
other  relations?  Do  you  suppose  I  don't 
know  that  I  've  been  bought  up  like  a  nig- 
ger?" 

She  looked  indignant,  compressing  her 
delicate  little  nostrils,  and  yet,  somehow, 
Clarence  had  the  same  singular  impression 
that  she  was  only  acting. 

The  calling  of  a  far-off  voice  came  faintly 
through  the  wood. 

"That's  Mary,  looking  for  me,"  said 
Susy  composedly.  "You  must  go,  now, 
Clarence.  Quick!  Remember  what  I  said, 
—  and  don't  breathe  a  word  of  this.  Good- 

by." 

But  Clarence  was  standing  still,  breath 
less,  hopelessly  disturbed,  and  irresolute. 
Then  he  turned  away  mechanically  towards 
the  trail. 

"Well,  Clarence?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  half  reproach 
fully,  half  coquettishly,  with  smiling,  parted 
lips.  He  hastened  to  forget  himself  and  his 
troubles  upon  them  twice  and  thrice.  Then 
she  quickly  disengaged  herself,  whispered, 
"Go,  now,"  and,  as  Mary's  call  was  re 
peated,  Clarence  heard  her  voice,  high  and 


100  SUSY: 

clear,  answering,  "Here,  dear,"  as  he  was 
plunging  into  the  thicket. 

He  had  scarcely  reached  the  madrono 
tree  again  and  remounted  his  horse,  before 
he  heard  the  sound  of  hoofs  approaching 
from  the  road.  In  his  present  uneasiness 
he  did  not  care  to  be  discovered  so  near  the 
rendezvous,  and  drew  back  into  the  shadow 
until  the  horseman  should  pass.  It  was 
Peyton,  with  a  somewhat  disturbed  face, 
riding  rapidly.  Still  less  was  he  inclined 
to  join  or  immediately  follow  him,  but  he 
was  relieved  when  his  host,  instead  of  tak 
ing  the  direct  road  to  the  rancho,  through 
the  wild  oats,  turned  off  in  the  direction  of 
the  corral. 

A  moment  later  Clarence  wheeled  into 
the  direct  road,  and  presently  found  himself 
in  the  long  afternoon  shadows  through  the 
thickest  of  the  grain.  He  was  riding 
slowly,  immersed  in  thought,  when  he  was 
suddenly  startled  by  a  hissing  noise  at  his 
ear,  and  what  seemed  to  be  the  uncoiling 
stroke  of  a  leaping  serpent  at  his  side.  In 
stinctively  he  threw  himself  forward  on  his 
horse's  neck,  and  as  the  animal  shied  into 
the  grain,  felt  the  crawling  scrape  and  jerk 
of  a  horsehair  lariat  across  his  back  and 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  101 

down  his  horse's  flanks.  He  reined  in 
indignantly  and  stood  up  in  his  stirrups. 
Nothing  was  to  be  seen  above  the  level  of 
the  grain.  Beneath  him  the  trailing  riata 
had  as  noiselessly  vanished  as  if  it  had  been 
indeed  a  gliding  snake.  Had  he  been  the 
victim  of  a  practical  joke,  or  of  the  blun 
der  of  some  stupid  vacquero  ?  For  he  made 
no  doubt  that  it  was  the  lasso  of  one  of  the 
performers  he  had  watched  that  afternoon. 
But  his  preoccupied  mind  did  not  dwell  long 
upon  it,  and  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the 
wall  of  the  old  garden,  the  incident  was  for 
gotten. 


102  SUSTt 


CHAPTER  VI. 

RELIEVED  of  Clarence  Brant's  embarrass 
ing  presence,  Jim  Hooker  did  not,  however, 
refuse  to  avail  himself  of  that  opportunity 
to  expound  to  the  farmer  and  his  family  the 
immense  wealth,  influence,  and  importance 
of  the  friend  who  had  just  left  him.  Al 
though  Clarence's  plan  had  suggested  reti 
cence,  Hooker  could  not  forego  the  pleasure 
of  informing  them  that  "Clar"  Brant  had 
just  offered  to  let  him  into  an  extensive 
land  speculation.  He  had  previously  de 
clined  a  large  share  or  original  location  in  a 
mine  of  Clarence's,  now  worth  a  million, 
because  it  was  not  "his  style."  But  the 
land  speculation  in  a  country  of  unsettled 
titles  and  lawless  men,  he  need  not  remind 
them,  required  some  experience  of  border 
warfare.  He  would  not  say  positively,  al 
though  he  left  them  to  draw  their  own  con 
clusions  with  gloomy  significance,  that  this 
was  why  Clarence  had  sought  him.*  With 
this  dark  suggestion,  he  took  leave  of  Mr. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  103 

and  Mrs.  Hopkins  and  their  daughter 
Phoebe  the  next  day,  not  without  some  nat 
ural  human  emotion,  and  peacefully  drove 
his  team  and  wagon  into  the  settlement  of 
Fair  Plains. 

He  was  not  prepared,  however,  for  a  sud 
den  realization  of  his  imaginative  prospects. 
A  few  days  after  his  arrival  in  Fair  Plains, 
he  received  a  letter  from  Clarence,  explain 
ing  that  he  had  not  time  to  return  to  Hoqker 
to  consult  him,  but  had,  nevertheless,  ful 
filled  his  promise,  by  taking  advantage  of 
an  opportunity  of  purchasing  the  Spanish 
"Sisters'  "  title  to  certain  unoccupied  lands 
near  the  settlement.  As  these  lands  in  part 
joined  the  section  already  preempted  and 
occupied  by  Hopkins,  Clarence  thought  that 
Jim  Hooker  would  choose  that  part  for  the 
sake  of  his  neighbor's  company.  He  in 
closed  a  draft  on  San  Francisco,  for  a  sum 
sufficient  to  enable  Jim  to  put  up  a  cabin 
and  "stock"  the  property,  which  he  begged 
he  would  consider  in  the  light  of  a  loan,  to 
be  paid  back  in  installments,  only  when  the 
property  could  afford  it.  At  the  same  time, 
if  Jim  was  in  difficulty,  he  was  to  inform 
him.  The  letter  closed  with  a  characteris 
tic  Clarence  -  like  mingling  of  enthusiasm 


104  SUSY: 

and  older  wisdom.  "1  wish  you  luck,  Jim, 
but  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  trust  to 
it.  I  don't  know  of  anything  that  could 
keep  you  from  making  yourself  independent 
of  any  one,  if  you  go  to  work  with  a  long  aim 
and  don't  fritter  away  your  chances  on  short 
ones.  If  I  were  you,  old  fellow,  I  'd  drop 
the  Plains  and  the  Indians  out  of  my 
thoughts,  or  at  least  out  of  my  talk,  for  a 
wh^e ;  they  won't  help  you  in  the  long  run. 
The  people  who  believe  you  will  be  jealous 
of  you;  those  who  don't,  will  look  down 
upon  you,  and  if  they  get  to  questioning 
your  little  Indian  romances,  Jim,  they  '11  be 
apt  to  question  your  civilized  facts.  That 
won't  help  you  in  the  ranching  .business, 
and  that 's  your  only  real  grip  now."  For 
the  space  of  two  or  three  hours  after  this, 
Jim  was  reasonably  grateful  and  even  sub 
dued,  —  so  much  so  that  his  employer,  to 
whom  he  confided  his  good  fortune,  frankly 
confessed  that  he  believed  him  from  that 
unusual  fact  alone.  Unfortunately,  neither 
the  practical  lesson  conveyed  in  this  grim 
admission,  nor  the  sentiment  of  gratitude, 
remained  long  with  Jim.  Another  idea  had 
taken  possession  of  his  fancy.  Although 
the  land  nominated  in  his  bill  of  sale  had 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  105 

been,  except  on  the  occasion  of  his  own  tem 
porary  halt  there,  always  unoccupied,  un 
sought,  and  unclaimed,  and  although  he  was 
amply  protected  .by  legal  certificates,  he 
gravely  collected  a  posse  of  three  or  four 
idlers  from  Fair  Plains,  armed  them  at  his 
own  expense,  and  in  the  dead  of  night  took 
belligerent  and  forcible  possession  of  the 
peaceful  domain  which  the  weak  generosity 
and  unheroic  dollars  of  Clarence  had  pur 
chased  for  him  !  A  martial  camp-fire  tem 
pered  the  chill  night  winds  to  the  pulses  of 
the  invaders,  and  enabled  them  to  sleep  on 
their  arms  in  the  field  they  had  won.  The 
morning  sun  revealed  to  the  astonished 
Hopkins  family  the  embattled  plain  beyond, 
with  its  armed  sentries.  Only  then  did  Jim 
Hooker  condescend  to  explain  the  reason  of 
his  warlike  occupation,  with  dark  hints  of 
the  outlying  "squatters"  and  "jumpers," 
whose  incursions  their  boldness  alone  had 
repulsed.  The  effect  of  this  romantic  situa 
tion  upon  the  two  women,  with  the  slight 
fascination  of  danger  imported  into  their 
quiet  lives,  may  well  be  imagined.  Possi 
bly  owing  to  some  incautious  questioning  by 
Mr.  Hopkins,  and  some  doubts  of  the  disci 
pline  and  sincerity  of  his  posse,  Jim  dis- 


106  SUSY: 

charged  them  the  next  day ;  but  during  the 
erection  of  his  cabin  by  some  peaceful  car 
penters  from  the  settlement,  he  returned  to 
his  gloomy  preoccupation  and  the  ostenta 
tious  wearing  of  his  revolvers.  As  an  opu 
lent  and  powerful  neighbor,  he  took  his 
meals  with  the  family  while  his  house  was 
being  built,  and  generally  impressed  them 
with  a  sense  of  security  they  had  never 
missed. 

Meantime,  Clarence,  duly  informed  of  the 
installation  of  Jim  as  his  tenant,  underwent 
a  severe  trial.  It  was  necessary  for  his 
plans  that  this  should  be  kept  a  secret  at 
present,  and  this  was  no  easy  thing  for  his 
habitually  frank  and  open  nature.  He  had 
once  mentioned  that  he  had  met  Jim  at  the 
settlement,  but  the  information  was  received 
with  such  indifference  by  Susy,  and  such 
marked  disfavor  by  Mrs.  Peyton,  that  he 
said  no  more.  He  accompanied  Peyton  in 
his  rides  around  the  rancho,  fully  possessed 
himself  of  the  details  of  its  boundaries,  the 
debatable  lands  held  by  the  enemy,  and 
listened  with  beating  pulses,  but  a  hushed 
tongue,  to  his  host's  ill-concealed  jnisgiv- 
ings. 

"You  see,  Clarence,  that  lower  terrace?  " 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  107 

he  said,  pointing  to  a  far-reaching  longitud 
inal  plain  beyond  the  corral;  "it  extends 
from  my  corral  to  Fair  Plains.  That  is 
claimed  by  the  sisters'  title,  and,  as  things 
appear  to  be  going,  if  a  division  of  the  land 
is  made  it  will  be  theirs.  It 's  bad  enough 
to  have  this  best  grazing  land  lying  just  on 
the  flanks  of  the  corral  held  by  these  rascals 
at  an  absurd  prohibitory  price,  but  I  am 
afraid  that  it  may  be  made  to  mean  some 
thing  even  worse.  According  to  the  old 
surveys,  these  terraces  on  different  levels 
were  the  natural  divisions  of  the  property, 
—  one  heir  or  his  tenant  taking  one,  and 
another  taking  another,  —  an  easy  distinc 
tion  that  saved  the  necessity  of  boundary 
fencing  or  monuments,  and  gave  no  trouble 
to  people  who  were  either  kinsmen  or  lived 
in  lazy  patriarchal  concord.  That  is  the 
form  of  division  they  are  trying  to  reestab 
lish  now.  Well,"  he  continued,  suddenly 
lifting  his  eyes  to  the  young  man's  flushed 
face,  in  some  unconscious,  sympathetic  re 
sponse  to  his  earnest  breathlessness,  "al 
though  my  boundary  line  extends  half  a 
mile  into  that  field,  my  house  and  garden 
and  corral  are  actually  upon  that  terrace  or 
level."  They  certainly  appeared  to  Clarence 


108  SUSY: 

to  be  on  the  same  line  as  the  long  field  be 
yond.  "  If,"  went  on  Peyton,  "  such  a  decision 
is  made,  these  men  will  push  on  and  claim 
the  house  and  everything  on  the  terrace." 

"But,"  said  Clarence  quickly,  "you  said 
their  title  was  only  valuable  where  they 
have  got  or  can  give  possession.  You  al 
ready  have  yours.  They  can't  take  it  from 
you  except  by  force." 

"No,"  said  Peyton  grimly,  "nor  will 
they  dare  to  do  it  as  long  as  I  live  to  fight 
them." 

"But,"  persisted  Clarence,  with  the  same 
singular  hesitancy  of  manner,  "why  didn't 
you  purchase  possession  of  at  least  that  part 
of  the  land  which  lies  so  dangerously  near 
your  own  house?" 

"Because  it  was  held  by  squatters,  who 
naturally  preferred  buying  what  might 
prove  a  legal  title  to  their  land  from  these 
impostors  than  to  sell  out  their  possession 
to  me  at  a  fair  price." 

"But  couldn't  you  have  bought  from 
them  both?"  continued  Clarence. 

"My  dear  Clarence,  I  am  not  a  Crossus 
nor  a  fool.  Only  a  man  who  was  both 
would  attempt  to  treat  with  these  rascals, 
who  would  now,  of  course,  insist  that  their 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  109 

whole  claim  should  be  bought  up  at  their 
own  price  by  the  man  who  was  most  con 
cerned  in  defeating  them." 

He  turned  away  a  little  impatiently. 
Fortunately  he  did  not  observe  that  ClaiN 
ence's  averted  face  was  crimson  with  em 
barrassment,  and  that  a  faint  smile  hovered 
nervously  about  his  mouth. 

Since  his  late  rendezvous  with  Susy, 
Clarence  had  had  no  chance  to  interrogate 
her  further  regarding  her  mysterious  rela«< 
tive.  That  that  shadowy  presence  was 
more  or  less  exaggerated,  if  not  an  absolute 
myth,  he  more  than  half  suspected,  but  of 
the  discontent  that  had  produced  it,  or  the 
recklessness  it  might  provoke,  there  was  no 
doubt.  She  might  be  tempted  to  some  act 
of  folly.  He  wondered  if  Mary  Rogers 
knew  it.  Yet,  with  his  sensitive  ideas  of 
loyalty,  he  would  have  shrunk  from  any 
confidence  with  Mary  regarding Jier  friend's 
secrets,  although  he  fancied  that  Mary's 
dark  eyes  sometimes  dwelt  upon  him  with 
mournful  consciousness  and  premonition. 
He  did  not  imagine  the  truth,  that  this  ro 
mantic  contemplation  was  only  the  result  of 
Mary's  conviction  that  Susy  was  utterly 
unworthy  of  his  love.  It  so  chanced  one 


110  SUST: 

morning  that  the  vacquero  who  brought  the 
post  from  Santa  Inez  arrived  earlier  than 
usual,  and  so  anticipated  the  two  girls,  who 
usually  made  a  youthful  point  of  meeting 
him  first  as  he  passed  the  garden  wall.  The 
letter  bag  was  consequently  delivered  to 
Mrs.  Peyton  in  the  presence  of  the  others, 
and  a  look  of  consternation  passed  between 
the  young  girls.  But  Mary  quickly  seized 
upon  the  bag  as  if  with  girlish  and  mis 
chievous  impatience,  opened  it,  and  glanced 
within  it. 

"There  are  only  three  letters  for  you," 
she  said,  handing  them  to  Clarence,  with  a 
quick  look  of  significance,  which  he  failed  to 
comprehend,  "and  nothing  for  me  or  Susy." 

"But,"  began  the  innocent  Clarence,  as 
his  first  glance  at  the  letters  showed  him 
that  one  was  directed  to  Susy,  "here  is"  — 

A  wicked  pinch  on  his  arm  that  was 
nearest  Mary^  stopped  his  speech,  and  he 
quickly  put  the  letters  in  his  pocket. 

"Didn't  you  understand  that  Susy  don't 
want  her  mother  to  see  that  letter?"  asked 
Mary  impatiently,  when  they  were  alone  a 
moment  later. 

"No,"  said  Clarence  simply,  handing  her 
the  missive. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  Ill 

Mary  took  it  and  turned  it  over  in  her 
hands. 

"It 's  in  a  man's  handwriting,"  she  said 
innocently. 

"I  hadn't  noticed  it,"  returned  Clarence 
with  invincible  naivete,  "but  perhaps  it  is." 

"And  you  hand  it  over  for  me  to  give  to 
Susy,  and  ain't  a  bit  curious  to  know  who 
it's  from?" 

"No,"  returned  Clarence,  opening  his  big 
eyes  in  smiling  and  apologetic  wonder. 

"Well,"  responded  the  young  lady,  with 
a  long  breath  of  melancholy  astonishment, 
"certainly,  of  all  things  you  are  —  you 
really  are!"  With  which  incoherency  — 
apparently  perfectly  intelligible  to  herself 
—  she  left  him.  She  had  not  herself  the 
slightest  idea  who  the  letter  was  from ;  she 
only  knew  that  Susy  wanted  it  concealed. 

The  incident  made  little  impression  on 
Clarence,  except  as  part  of  the  general  un 
easiness  he  felt  in  regard  to  his  old  play 
mate.  It  seemed  so  odd  to  him  that  this 
worry  should  come  from  her,  —  that  she  her 
self  should  form  the  one  discordant  note  in 
the  Arcadian  dream  that  he  had  found  so 
sweet ;  in  his  previous  imaginings  it  was  the 
presence  of  Mrs.  Peyton  which  he  had 


112  SUSY: 

dreaded ;  she  whose  propinquity  now  seemed 
so  full  of  gentleness,  reassurance,  and  re 
pose.  How  worthy  she  seemed  of  any  sac 
rifice  he  could  make  for  her !  He  had  seen 
little  of  her  for  the  last  two  or  three  days, 
although  her  smile  and  greeting  were  always 
ready  for  him.  Poor  Clarence  did  not 
dream  that  she  had  found  from  certain  in 
contestable  signs  and  tokens,  both  in  the 
young  ladies  and  himself,  that  he  did  not 
require  watching,  and  that  becoming  more 
resigned  to  Susy's  indifference,  which 
seemed  so  general  and  passive  in  quality, 
she  was  no  longer  tortured  by  the  sting  of 
jealousy. 

Finding  himself  alone  that  afternoon,  the 
young  man  had  wandered  somewhat  list 
lessly  beyond  the  low  adobe  gateway.  The 
habits  of  the  siesta  obtained  in  a  modified 
form  at  the  rancho.  After  luncheon,  its 
masters  and  employees  usually  retired,  not 
so  much  from  the  torrid  heat  of  the  after 
noon  sun,  but  from  the  first  harrying  of 
the  afternoon  trades,  whose  monotonous 
whistle  swept  round  the  walls.  A  straggling 
passion  vine  near  the  gate  beat  and  ^trug- 
gled  against  the  wind.  Clarence  had  stopped 
near  it,  and  was  gazing  with  worried  ab- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  113 

straction  across  the  tossing  fields,  when  a 
soft  voice  called  his  name. 

It  was  a  pleasant  voice,  —  Mrs.  Peyton's. 
He  glanced  back  at  the  gateway;  it  was 
empty.  He  looked  quickly  to  the  right  and 
left;  no  one  was  there. 

The  voice  spoke  again  with  the  musical 
addition  of  a  laugh ;  it  seemed  to  come  from 
the  passion  vine.  Ah,  yes;  behind  it,  and 
half  overgrown  by  its  branches,  was  a  long, 
narrow  embrasured  opening  in  the  wall,  de 
fended  by  the  usual  Spanish  grating,  and 
still  further  back,  as  in  the  frame  of  a  pic 
ture,  the  half  length  figure  of  Mrs.  Peyton, 
very  handsome  and  striking,  too,  with  a 
painted  picturesqueness  from  the  effect  of 
the  checkered  light  and  shade. 

"You  looked  so  tired  and  bored  out 
there,"  she  said.  "I  am  afraid  you  are 
finding  it  very  dull  at  the  rancho.  The 
prospect  is  certainly  not  very  enlivening 
from  where  you  stand." 

Clarence  protested  with  a  visible  pleasure 
in  his  eyes,  as  he  held  back  a  spray  before 
the  opening. 

"If  you  are  not  afraid  of  being  worse 
bored,  come  in  here  and  talk  with  me.  You 
have  never  seen  this  part  of  the  house,  I 


114  SUSY: 

think,  —  my  own  sitting-room.  You  reach 
it  from  the  hall  in  the  gallery.  But  Lola 
or  Anita  will  show  you  the  way." 

He  reentered  the  gateway,  and  quickly 
found  the  hall,  —  a  narrow,  arched  passage, 
whose  black,  tunnel-like  shadows  were  abso 
lutely  unaffected  by  the  vivid,  colorless 
glare  of  the  courtyard  without,  seen  through 
an  opening  at  the  end.  The  contrast  was 
sharp,  blinding,  and  distinct ;  even  the  edges 
of  the  opening  were  black ;  the  outer  light 
halted  on  the  threshold  and  never  penetrated 
within.  The  warm  odor  of  verbena  and 
dried  rose  leaves  stole  from  a  half -open  door 
somewhere  in  the  cloistered  gloom.  Guided 
by  it,  Clarence  presently  found  himself  on 
the  threshold  of  a  low-vaulted  room.  Two 
other  narrow  embrasured  windows  like  the 
one  he  had  just  seen,  and  a  fourth,  wider 
latticed  casement,  hung  with  gauze  curtains, 
suffused  the  apartment  with  a  clear,  yet 
mysterious  twilight  that  seemed  its  own. 
The  gloomy  walls  were  warmed  by  bright- 
fringed  bookshelves,  topped  with  trifles  of 
light  feminine  coloring  and  adornment. 
Low  easy-chairs  and  a  lounge,  small  fanci 
ful  tables,  a  dainty  desk,  gayly  colored 
baskets  of  worsteds  or  mysterious  kaleido- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  115 

scopic  fragments,  and  vases  of  flowers  per 
vaded  the  apartment  with  a  mingled  sense 
of  grace  and  comfort.  There  was  a  wo 
manly  refinement  in  its  careless  negligence, 
and  even  the  delicate  wrapper  of  Japanese 
sill?,  gathered  at  the  waist  and  falling  in 
easy  folds  to  the  feet  of  the  graceful  mistress 
of  this  charming  disorder,  looked  a  part  of 
its  refined  abandonment. 

Clarence  hesitated  as  on  the  threshold  of 
some  sacred  shrine.  But  Mrs.  Peyton, 
with  her  own  hands,  cleared  a  space  for  him 
on  the  lounge. 

"  You  will  easily  suspect  from  all  this  dis 
order,  Mr.  Brant,  that  I  spend  a  greater 
part  of  my  time  here,  and  that  I  seldom  see 
much  company.  Mr.  Peyton  occasionally 
comes  in  long  enough  to  stumble  over  a 
footstool  or  upset  a  vase,  and  I  think  Mary 
and  Susy  avoid  it  from  a  firm  conviction 
that  there  is  work  concealed  in  these  bas 
kets.  But  I  have  my  books  here,  and  in 
the  afternoons,  behind  these  thick  walls, 
one  forgets  the  incessant  stir  and  restless 
ness  of  the  dreadful  winds  outside.  Just 
now  you  were  foolish  enough  to  tempt  them 
while  you  were  nervous,  or  worried,  or  list 
less.  Take  my  word  for  it,  it 's  a  great 


116  SUSTi 

mistake.  There  is  no  more  use  fighting 
them,  as  I  tell  Mr.  Peyton,  than  of  fighting 
the  people  born  under  them.  I  have  my 
own  opinion  that  these  winds  were  sent  only 
to  stir  this  lazy  race  of  mongrels  into  activ 
ity,  but  they  are  enough  to  drive  us  Anglo- 
Saxons  into  nervous  frenzy.  Don't  you 
think  so?  But  you  are  young  and  ener 
getic,  and  perhaps  you  are  not  affected  by 
them." 

She  spoke  pleasantly  and  playfully,  yet 
with  a  certain  nervous  tension  of  voice  and 
manner  that  seemed  to  illustrate  her  theory. 
At  least,  Clarence,  in  quick  sympathy  with 
her  slightest  emotion,  was  touched  by  it. 
There  is  no  more  insidious  attraction  in  the 
persons  we  admire,  than  the  belief  that  we 
know  and  understand  their  unhappiness, 
and  that  our  admiration  for  them  is  lifted 
higher  than  a  mere  mutual  instinctive  sym 
pathy  with  beauty  or  strength.  This  adora 
ble  woman  had  suffered.  The  very  thought 
aroused  his  chivalry.  It  loosened,  also, 
I  fear,  his  quick,  impulsive  tongue. 

Oh,  yes ;  he  knew  it.  He  had  lived  un 
der  this  whip  of  air  and  sky  for  thre*  years, 
alone  in  a  Spanish  rancho,  with  only  the 
native  peons  around  him,  and  scarcely 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  117 

speaking  his  own  tongue  even  to  his  guar 
dian.  He  spent  his  mornings  on  horseback 
in  fields  like  these,  until  the  vientos  gener- 
ales,  as  they  called  them,  sprang  up  and 
drove  him  nearly  frantic ;  and  his  only  re 
lief  was  to  bury  himself  among  the  books 
in  his  guardian's  library,  and  shut  out  the 
world,  —  just  as  she  did.  The  smile  which 
hovered  around  the  lady's  mouth  at  that 
moment  arrested  Clarence,  with  a  quick 
remembrance  of  their  former  relative  posi 
tions,  and  a  sudden  conviction  of  his  famil 
iarity  in  suggesting  an  equality  of  experi 
ence,  and  he  blushed.  But  Mrs.  Peyton 
diverted  his  embarrassment  with  an  air  of 
interested  absorption  in  his  story,  and 
said :  — 

"  Then  you  know  these  people  thoroughly, 
Mr.  Brant?  I  am  afraid  that  we  do  not." 

Clarence  had  already  gathered  that  fact 
within  the  last  few  days,  and,  with  his 
usual  impulsive  directness,  said  so.  A 
slight  knitting  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  brows 
passed  off,  however,  as  he  quickly  and  ear 
nestly  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  impossible 
for  the  Peytons  in  their  present  relations  to 
the  natives  to  judge  them,  or  to  be  judged 
by  them  fairly.  How  they  were  a  childlike 


118  SUSY: 

race,  credulous  and  trustful,  but,  like  all 
credulous  and  trustful  people,  given  to  re 
taliate  when  imposed  upon  with  a  larger 
insincerity,  exaggeration,  and  treachery. 
How  they  had  seen  their  houses  and  lands 
occupied  by  strangers,  their  religion 
scorned,  their  customs  derided,  their  patri 
archal  society  invaded  by  hollow  civiliza 
tion  or  frontier  brutality  —  all  this  fortified 
by  incident  and  illustration,  the  outcome  of 
some  youthful  experience,  and  given  with 
the  glowing  enthusiasm  of  conviction. 
Mrs.  Peyton  listened  with  the  usual  divided 
feminine  interest  between  subject  and 
speaker. 

Where  did  this  rough,  sullen  boy  —  as 
she  had  known  him  —  pick  up  this  delicate 
and  swift  perception,  this  reflective  judg 
ment,  and  this  odd  felicity  of  expression? 
It  was  not  possible  that  it  was  in  him  while 
he  was  the  companion  of  her  husband's  ser 
vants  or  the  recognized  "chum"  of  the 
scamp  Hooker.  No.  But  if  he  could  have 
changed  like  this,  why  not  Susy?  Mrs. 
Peyton,  in  the  conservatism  of  her  sex,  had 
never  been  quite  free  from  fears  .of  her 
adopted  daughter's  hereditary  instincts; 
but,  with  this  example  before  her,  she  now 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  119 

took  heart.  Perhaps  the  change  was  com 
ing  slowly;  perhaps  even  now  what  she 
thought  was  indifference  and  coldness  was 
only  some  abnormal  preparation  or  condi 
tion.  But  she  only  smiled  and  said:  — 

"Then,  if  you  think  those  people  have 
been  wronged,  you  are  not  on  our  side,  Mr. 
Brant?  " 

What  to  an  older  and  more  worldly  man 
would  have  seemed,  and  probably  was,  only 
a  playful  reproach,  struck  Clarence  deeply, 
and  brought  his  pent-up  feelings  to  his  lips. 

"  You  have  never  wronged  them.  You 
couldn't  do  it;  it  isn't  in  your  nature.  I 
am  on  your  side,  and  for  you  and  yours  al 
ways,  Mrs.  Peyton.  From  the  first  time  I 
saw  you  on  the  plains,  when  I  was  brought, 
a  ragged  boy,  before  you  by  your  husband, 
I  think  I  would  gladly  have  laid  down  my 
life  for  you.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now 
that  I  was  even  jealous  of  poor  Susy,  so 
anxious  was  I  for  the  smallest  share  in  your 
thoughts,  if  only  for  a  moment.  You  could 
have  done  anything  with  me  you  wished, 
and  I  should  have  been  happy,  —  far  hap 
pier  than  I  have  been  ever  since.  I  tell  you 
this,  Mrs.  Peyton,  now,  because  you  have 
just  doubted  if  I  might  be  'on  your  side,' 


120  SUSY: 

but  I  have  been  longing  to  tell  it  all  to  you 
before,  and  it  is  that  I  am  ready  to  do  any 
thing  you  want,  —  all  you  want,  —  to  be  on 
your  side  and  at  your  side,  now  and  for 
ever." 

He  was  so  earnest  and  hearty,  and  above 
all  so  appallingly  and  blissfully  happy,  in 
this  relief  of  his  feelings,  smiling  as  if  it 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world, 
and  so  absurdly  unconscious  of  his  twenty- 
two  years,  his  little  brown  curling  mustache, 
the  fire  in  his  wistful,  yearning  eyes,  and, 
above  all,  of  his  clasped  hands  and  lover-like 
attitude,  that  Mrs.  Peyton  —  at  first  rigid 
as  stone,  then  suffused  to  the  eyes  —  cast  a 
hasty  glance  round  the  apartment,  put  her 
handkerchief  to  her  face,  and  laughed  like 
a  girl. 

At  which  Clarence,  by  no  means  discom 
posed,  but  rather  accepting  her  emotion  as 
perfectly  natural,  joined  her  heartily,  and 
added : — 

"It's  so,  Mrs.  Peyton;  I  'm  glad  I  told 
you.  You  don't  mind  it,  do  you?  " 

But  Mrs.  Peyton  had  resumed  her  grav 
ity,  and  perhaps  a  touch  of  her  previous 
misgivings. 

"I  should  certainly  be  very  sorry,"  she 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  121 

said,  looking  at  him  critically,  "to  object 
to  your  sharing  your  old  friendship  for  your 
little  playmate  with  her  parents  and  guar 
dians,  or  to  your  expressing  it  to  them  as 
frankly  as  to  her." 

She  saw  the  quick  change  in  his  mobile 
face  and  the  momentary  arrest  of  its  happy 
expression.  She  was  frightened  and  yet 
puzzled.  It  was  not  the  sensitiveness  of  a 
lover  at  the  mention  of  the  loved  one's 
name,  and  yet  it  suggested  an  uneasy  con 
sciousness.  If  his  previous  impulsive  out 
burst  had  been  prompted  honestly,  or  even 
artfully,  by  his  passion  for  Susy,  why  had 
he  looked  so  shocked  when  she  spoke  of  her  ? 

But  Clarence,  whose  emotion  had  been 
caused  by  the  sudden  recall  of  his  knowledge 
of  Susy's  own  disloyalty  to  the  woman 
whose  searching  eyes  were  upon  him,  in 
his  revulsion  against  the  deceit  was,  for 
an  instant,  upon  the  point  of  divulging  all. 
Perhaps,  if  Mrs.  Peyton  had  shown  more 
confidence,  he  would  have  done  so,  and  ma 
terially  altered  the  evolution  of  this  story. 
But,  happily,  it  is  upon  these  slight  human 
weaknesses  that  your  romancer  depends, 
and  Clarence,  with  no  other  reason  than  the 
instinctive  sympathy  of  youth  with  youth  in 


122  SVSY: 

its  opposition  to  wisdom  and  experience,  let 
the  opportunity  pass,  and  took  the  responsi 
bility  of  it  out  of  the  hands  of  this  chroni 
cler. 

Howbeit,  to  cover  his  confusion,  he  seized 
upon  the  second  idea  that  was  in  his  mind, 
and  stammered,  "Susy!  Yes,  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about  her."  Mrs.  Peyton 
held  her  breath,  but  the  young  man  went 
on,  although  hesitatingly,  with  evident  sin 
cerity.  "Have  you  heard  from  any  of  her 
relations  since  —  since  —  you  adopted  her?  " 

It  seemed  a  natural  enough  question,  al 
though  not  the  sequitur  she  had  expected. 
"No,"  she  said  carelessly.  "It  was  well 
understood,  after  the  nearest  relation  —  an 
aunt  by  marriage  —  had  signed  her  consent 
to  Susy's  adoption,  that  there  should  be  no 
further  intercourse  with  the  family.  There 
seemed  to  us  no  necessity  for  reopening  the 
past,  and  Susy  herself  expressed  no  desire." 
She  stopped,  and  again  fixing  her  handsome 
eyes  on  Clarence,  said,  "  Do  you  know  any 
of  them?  " 

But  Clarence  by  this  time  had  recovered 
himself,  and  was  able  to  answer  carelessly 
and  truthfully  that  he  did  not.  Mrs.~Pey- 
ton,  still  regarding  him  closely,  added  some- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  123 

what  deliberately,  "It  matters  little  now 
what  relations  she  has;  Mr.  Peyton  and  I 
have  complete  legal  control  over  her  until 
she  is  of  age,  and  we  can  easily  protect  her 
from  any  folly  of  her  own  or  others,  or  from 
any  of  the  foolish  fancies  that  sometimes 
overtake  girls  of  her  age  and  inexperience." 

To  her  utter  surprise,  however,  Clarence 
uttered  a  faint  sigh  of  relief,  and  his  face 
again  recovered  its  expression  of  boyish 
happiness.  "I  'm  glad  of  it,  Mrs.  Peyton," 
he  said  heartily.  "No  one  could  under 
stand  better  what  is  for  her  interest  in  all 
things  than  yourself.  Not,"  he  said,  with 
hasty  and  equally  hearty  loyalty  to  his  old 
playmate,  "that  I  think  she  would  ever  go 
against  your  wishes,  or  do  anything  that  she 
knows  to  be  wrong,  but  she  is  very  young 
and  innocent,  —  as  much  of  a  child  as  ever, 
don't  you  think  so,  Mrs.  Peyton?  " 

It  was  amusing,  yet  nevertheless  puzzling, 
to  hear  this  boyish  young  man  comment 
upon  Susy's  girlishness.  And  Clarence 
was  serious,  for  he  had  quite  forgotten  in 
Mrs.  Peyton's  presence  the  impression  of 
superiority  which  Susy  had  lately  made  upon 
him.  But  Mrs.  Peyton  returned  to  the 
charge,  or,  rather,  to  an  attack  upon  what 


124  SUSY: 

she  conceived  to  be  Clarence's  old  posi 
tion. 

"I  suppose  she  does  seem  girlish  com 
pared  to  Mary  Rogers,  who  is  a  much  more 
reserved  and  quiet  nature.  But  Mary  is 
very  charming,  Mr.  Brant,  and  I  am  really 
delighted  to  have  her  here  with  Susy.  She 
has  such  lovely  dark  eyes  and  such  good 
manners.  She  has  been  well  brought  up, 
and  it  is  easy  to  see  that  her  friends  are 
superior  people.  I  must  write  to  them  to 
thank  them  for  her  visit,  and  beg  them  to 
let  her  stay  longer.  I  think  you  said  you 
did  n't  know  them?" 

But  Clarence,  whose  eyes  had  been 
thoughtfully  and  admiringly  wandering  over 
every  characteristic  detail  of  the  charming 
apartment,  here  raised  them  to  its  handsome 
mistress,  with  an  apologetic  air  and  a  "No  " 
of  such  unaffected  and  complete  abstraction, 
that  she  was  again  dumbfounded.  Cer 
tainly,  it  could  not  be  Mary  in  whom  he  was 
interested. 

Abandoning  any  further  inquisition  for 
the  present,  she  let  the  talk  naturally  fall 
upon  the  books  scattered  about  the  tables. 
The  young  man  knew  them  all  far  better 
than  she  did,  with  a  cognate  knowledge  of 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  125 

others  of  which  she  had  never  heard.  She 
found  herself  in  the  attitude  of  receiving 
information  from  this  boy,  whose  boyish 
ness,  however,  seemed  to  have  evaporated, 
whose  tone  had  changed  with  the  subject, 
and  who  now  spoke  with  the  conscious  re 
serve  of  knowledge.  Decidedly,  she  must 
have  grown  rusty  in  her  seclusion.  This 
came,  she  thought  bitterly,  of  living  alone ; 
of  her  husband's  preoccupation  with  the 
property;  of  Susy's  frivolous  caprices.  At 
the  end  of  eight  years  to  be  outstripped  by 
a  former  cattle-boy  of  her  husband's,  and 
to  have  her  French  corrected  in  a  matter  of 
fact  way  by  this  recent  pupil  of  the  priests, 
was  really  too  bad!  Perhaps  he  even 
looked  down  upon  Susy !  She  smiled  dan 
gerously  but  suavely. 

"You  must  have  worked  so  hard  to  edu 
cate  yourself  from  nothing,  Mr.  Brant. 
You  could  n't  read,  I  think,  when  you  first 
came  to  us.  No  ?  Could  you  really?  I 
know  it  has  been  very  difficult  for  Susy  to 
get  on  with  her  studies  in  proportion.  We 
had  so  much  to  first  eradicate  in  the  way  of 
manners,  style,  and  habits  of  thought  which 
the  poor  child  had  picked  up  from  her  com 
panions,  and  for  which  she  was  not  respon- 


126  BUST: 

sible.     Of  course,  with  a  boy  that  does  not 
signify,"  she  added,  with  feline  gentleness. 
But  the  barbed  speech  glanced  from  the 
young  man's  smoothly  smiling  abstraction. 

"Ah,  yes.  But  those  were  happy  days, 
Mrs.  Peyton,"  he  answered,  with  an  exas 
perating  return  of  his  previous  boyish  enthu 
siasm,  "perhaps  because  of  our  ignorance. 
I  don't  think  that  Susy  and  I  are  any  hap 
pier  for  knowing  that  the  plains  are  not  as 
flat  as  we  believed  they  were,  and  that  the 
sun  doesn't  have  to  burn  a  hole  in  them 
every  night  when  it  sets.  But  I  know  I 
believed  that  you  knew  everything.  When 
I  once  saw  you  smiling  over  a  book  in  your 
hand,  I  thought  it  must  be  a  different  one 
from  any  that  I  had  ever  seen,  and  perhaps 
made  expressly  for  you.  I  can  see  you  there 
still.  Do  you  know,"  quite  confidentially, 
"that  you  reminded'me  —  of  course  you  were 
much  younger  —  of  what  I  remembered  of 
my  mother?" 

But  Mrs.  Peyton's  reply  of  "Ah,  indeed," 
albeit  polite,  indicated  some  coldness  and 
lack  of  animation.  Clarence  rose  quickly, 
but  cast  a  long  and  lingering  loo^  around 
him. 

"You  will  come  again,  Mr.  Brant,"  said 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  127 

the  lady  more  graciously.  "If  you  are  go 
ing  to  ride  now,  perhaps  you  would  try  to 
meet  Mr.  Peyton.  He  is  late  already,  and 
I  am  always  uneasy  when  he  is  out  alone,  — 
particularly  on  one  of  those  half-broken 
horses,  which  they  consider  good  enough  for 
riding  here.  You  have  ridden  them  before 
and  understand  them,  but  I  am  afraid  that 's 
another  thing  we  have  got  to  learn." 

When  the  young  man  found  himself 
again  confronting  the  glittering  light  of  the 
courtyard,  he  remembered  the  interview  and 
the  soft  twilight  of  the  boudoir  only  as 
part  of  a  pleasant  dream.  There  was  a 
rude  awakening  in  the  fierce  wind,  which 
had  increased  with  the  lengthening  shadows. 
It  seemed  to  sweep  away  the  half -sensuous 
comfort  that  had  pervaded  him,  and  made 
him  coldly  realize  that  he  had  done  nothing 
to  solve  the  difficulties  of  his  relations  to 
Susy.  He  had  lost  the  one  chance  of  con 
fiding  to  Mrs.  Peyton,  —  if  he  had  ever 
really  intended  to  do  so.  It  was  impossible 
for  him  to  do  it  hereafter  without  a  confes 
sion  of  prolonged  deceit. 

He  reached  the  stables  impatiently,  where 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  sound 
of  excited  voices  in  the  corral.  Looking 


128  SUSY: 

within,  he  was  concerned  to  see  that  one 
of  the  vacqueros  was  holding  the  dragging 
bridle  of  a  blown,  dusty,  and  foam-covered 
horse,  around  whom  a  dozen  idlers  were 
gathered.  Even  beneath  its  coating  of  dust 
and  foam  and  the  half -displaced  saddle  blan 
ket,  Clarence  immediately  recognized  the 
spirited  pinto  mustang  which  Peyton  had 
ridden  that  morning. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Clarence, 
from  the  gateway. 

The  men  fell  apart,  glancing  at  each 
other.  One  said  quickly  in  Spanish :  — 

"Say  nothing  to  him.  It  is  an  affair  of 
the  house." 

But  this  brought  Clarence  down  like  a 
bombshell  among  them,  not  to  be  over 
looked  in  his  equal  command  of  their  tongue 
and  of  them.  "Ah!  come,  now.  What 
drunken  piggishness  is  this?  Speak!  " 

"The  padron  has  been  —  perhaps  — 
thrown,"  stammered  the  first  speaker. 
"  His  horse  arrives,  —  but  he  does  not.  We 
go  to  inform  the  senora." 

"  No,  you  don't !  mules  and  imbeciles  !  Do 
you  want  to  frighten  her  to  death  ?  ^iount, 
every  one  of  you,  and  follow  me  !  " 

The  men  hesitated,  but  for  only  a  mo 
ment.  Clarence  had  a  fine  assortment  of 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  129 

Spanish  epithets,  expletives,  and  objurga 
tions,  gathered  in  his  rodeo  experience  at 
El  Refugio,  and  laid  them  about  him  with 
such  fervor  and  discrimination  that  two  or 
three  mules,  presumably  with  guilty  con 
sciences,  mistaking  their  direction,  actually 
cowered  against  the  stockade  of  the  corral 
in  fear.  In  another  moment  the  vacqueros 
had  hastily  mounted,  and,  with  Clarence  at 
their  head,  were  dashing  down  the  road 
towards  Santa  Inez.  Here  he  spread  them 
in  open  order  in  the  grain,  on  either  side  of 
the  track,  himself  taking  the  road. 

They  did  not  proceed  very  far.  For 
when  they  had  reached  the  gradual  slope 
which  marked  the  decline  to  the  second  ter 
race,  Clarence,  obeying  an  instinct  as  irre 
sistible  as  it  was  unaccountable,  which  for 
the  last  few  moments  had  been  forcing  itself 
upon  him,  ordered  a  halt.  The  casa  and 
corral  had  already  sunk  in  the  plain  be 
hind  them ;  it  was  the  spot  where  the  lasso 
had  been  thrown  at  him  a  few  evenings 
before !  Bidding  the  men  converge  slowly 
towards  the  road,  he  went  on  more  cau 
tiously,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  track  before 
him.  Presently  he  stopped.  There  was  a 
ragged  displacement  of  the  cracked  and 


130  SUSY: 

crumbling  soil  and  the  unmistakable  scoop 
of  kicking  hoofs.  As  he  stooped  to  examine 
them,  one  of  the  men  at  the  right  uttered  a 
shout.  By  the  same  strange  instinct  Clar 
ence  knew  that  Peyton  was  found ! 

He  was,  indeed,  lying  there  among  the 
wild  oats  at  the  right  of  the  road,  but  with 
out  trace  of  life  or  scarcely  human  appear 
ance.  His  clothes,  where  not  torn  and 
shredded  away,  were  partly  turned  inside 
out;  his  shoulders,  neck,  and  head  were  a 
shapeless,  undistinguishable  mask  of  dried 
earth  and  rags,  like  a  mummy  wrapping. 
His  left  boot  was  gone.  His  large  frame 
seemed  boneless,  and,  except  for  the  cere 
ments  of  his  mud-stiffened  clothing,  was 
limp  and  sodden. 

Clarence  raised  his  head  suddenly  from  a 
quick  examination  of  the  body,  and  looked 
at  the  men  around  him.  One  of  them  was 
already  cantering  away.  Clarence  instantly 
threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and,  putting 
spurs  to  the  animal,  drew  a  revolver  from 
his  holster  and  fired  over  the  man's  head. 
The  rider  turned  in  his  saddle,  saw  his  pur 
suer,  and  pulled  up. 

"Go  back,"  said  Clarence,  "or  my  next 
shot  won't  miss  you." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  131 

"I  was  only  going  to  inform  the  senora," 
said  the  man  with  a  shrug  and  a  forced 
smile. 

"/will  do  that,"  said  Clarence  grimly, 
driving  him  back  with  him  into  the  waiting 
circle ;  then  turning  to  them  he  said  slowly, 
with  deliberate,  smileless  irony,  "And  now, 
my  brave  gentlemen,  —  knights  of  the  bull 
and  gallant  mustang  hunters,  —  /  want  to 
inform  you  that  I  believe  that  Mr.  Peyton 
was  murdered,  and  if  the  man  who  killed 
him  is  anywhere  this  side  of  hell,  1  intend 
to  find  him.  Good !  You  understand  me  I 
Now  lift  up  the  body,  —  you  two,  by  the 
shoulders ;  you  two,  by  the  feet.  Let  your 
horses  follow.  For  I  intend  that  you  four 
shall  carry  home  your  master  in  your  arms, 
on  foot.  Now  forward  to  the  corral  by  the 
back  trail.  Disobey  me,  or  step  out  of  line 
and  "  —  He  raised  the  revolver  ominously. 

If  the  change  wrought  in  the  dead  man 
before  them  was  weird  and  terrifying,  no 
less  distinct  and  ominous  was  the  change 
that,  during  the  last  few  minutes,  had  come 
over  the  living  speaker.  For  it  was  no 
longer  the  youthful  Clarence  who  sat  there, 
but  a  haggard,  prematurely  worn,  desperate- 
looking  avenger,  lank  of  cheek,  and  injected 


132  SUSY: 

of  eye,  whose  white  teeth  glistened  under 
the  brown  mustache  and  thin  pale  lips  that 
parted  when  his  restrained  breath  now  and 
then  hurriedly  escaped  them. 

As  the  procession  moved  on,  two  men 
slunk  behind  with  the  horses. 

"Mother  of  God!  Who  is  this  wolf's 
whelp  ?  "  said  Manuel. 

"Hush!"  said  his  companion  in  a  terri 
fied  whisper.  "Have  you  not  heard?  It 
is  the  son  of  Hamilton  Brant,  the  assassin, 
the  duelist,  —  he  who  was  f usiladed  in  So- 
nora."  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross 
quickly.  "Jesus  Maria!  Let  them  look 
out  who  have  cause,  for  the  blood  of  his 
father  is  in  him !  " 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  133 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHAT  other  speech  passed  between  Clar 
ence  and  Peyton's  retainers  was  not  known, 
but  not  a  word  of  the  interview  seemed  to 
have  been  divulged  by  those  present.  It 
was  generally  believed  and  accepted  that 
Judge  Peyton  met  his  death  by  being  thrown 
from  his  half -broken  mustang,  and  dragged 
at  its  heels,  and  medical  opinion,  hastily 
summoned  from  Santa  Inez  after  the  body 
had  been  borne  to  the  corral,  and  stripped 
of  its  hideous  encasings,  declared  that  the 
neck  had  been  broken,  and  death  had  fol 
lowed  instantaneously.  An  inquest  was 
deemed  unnecessary. 

Clarence  had  selected  Mary  to  break  the 
news  to  Mrs.  Peyton,  and  the  frightened 
young  girl  was  too  much  struck  with  the 
change  still  visible  in  his  face,  and  the  half 
authority  of  his  manner,  to  decline,  or  even 
to  fully  appreciate  the  calamity  that  had 
befallen  them.  After  the  first  benumbing 
shock,  Mrs.  Peyton  passed  into  that  strange 


134  SUSY: 

exaltation  of  excitement  brought  on  by  the 
immediate  necessity  for  action,  followed  by 
a  pallid  calm,  which  the  average  spectator 
too  often  unfairly  accepts  as  incongruous, 
inadequate,  or  artificial.  There  had  also 
occurred  one  of  those  strange  compensations 
that  wait  on  Death  or  disrupture  by  catas 
trophe  :  such  as  the  rude  shaking  down  of 
an  unsettled  life,  the  forcible  realization  of 
what  were  vague  speculations,  the  breaking 
of  old  habits  and  traditions,  and  the  unloos 
ing  of  half-conscious  bonds.  Mrs.  Peyton, 
without  insensibility  to  her  loss  or  disloy 
alty  to  her  affections,  nevertheless  felt  a  re 
lief  to  know  that  she  was  now  really  Susy's 
guardian,  free  to  order  her  new  life  wher 
ever  and  under  what  conditions  she  chose  as 
most  favorable  to  it,  and  that  she  could  dis 
pose  of  this  house  that  was  wearying  to  her 
when  Susy  was  away,  and  which  the  girl 
herself  had  always  found  insupportable. 
She  could  settle  this  question  of  Clarence's 
relations  to  her  daughter  out  of  hand  with 
out  advice  or  opposition.  She  had  a  bro 
ther  in  the  East,  who  would  be  summoned 
to  take  care  of  the  property.  This  consid 
eration  for  the  living  pursued  her,  even 
while  the  dead  man's  presence  still  awed 


A   STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  135 

the  hushed  house ;  it  was  in  her  thoughts  as 
she  stood  beside  his  bier  and  adjusted  the 
flowers  on  his  breast,  which  no  longer  moved 
for  or  against  these  vanities ;  and  it  stayed 
with  her  even  in  the  solitude  of  her  dark 
ened  room. 

But  if  Mrs.  Peyton  was  deficient,  it  was 
Susy  who  filled  the  popular  idea  of  a 
mourner,  and  whose  emotional  attitude  of 
a  grief -stricken  daughter  left  nothing  to  be 
desired.  It  was  she  who,  when  the  house 
was  filled  with  sympathizing  friends  from 
San  Francisco  and  the  few  near  neighbors 
who  had  hurried  with  condolences,  was  over 
flowing  in  her  reminiscences  of  the  *dead 
man's  goodness  to  her,  and  her  own  undy 
ing  affection ;  who  recalled  ominous  things 
that  he  had  said,  and  strange  premonitions 
of  her  own,  the  result  of  her  ever-present 
filial  anxiety;  it  was  she  who  had  hurried 
home  that  afternoon,  impelled  with  vague 
fears  of  some  impending  calamity;  it  was 
she  who  drew  a  picture  of  Peyton  as  a  dot 
ing  and  almost  too  indulgent  parent,  which 
Mary  Rogers  failed  to  recognize,  and  which 
brought  back  vividly  to  Clarence's  recollec 
tion  her  own  childish  exaggerations  of  the 
Indian  massacre.  I  am  far  from  saying 


136  SUSY: 

that  she  was  entirely  insincere  or  merely 
acting  at  these  moments ;  at  times  she  was 
taken  with  a  mild  hysteria,  brought  on  by 
the  exciting  intrusion  of  this  real  event  in 
her  monotonous  life,  by  the  attentions  of 
her  friends,  the  importance  of  her  suffering 
as  an  only  child,  and  the  advancement  of 
her  position  as  the  heiress  of  the  Kobles 
Rancho.  If  her  tears  were  near  the  sur 
face,  they  were  at  least  genuine,  and  filmed 
her  violet  eyes  and  reddened  her  pretty  eye 
lids  quite  as  effectually  as  if  they  had 
welled  from  the  depths  of  her  being.  Her 
black  frock  lent  a  matured  dignity  to  her 
figure,  and  paled  her  delicate  complexion 
with  the  refinement  of  suffering.  Even 
Clarence  was  moved  in  that  dark  and  hag 
gard  abstraction  that  had  settled  upon  him 
since  his  strange  outbreak  over  the  body  of 
his  old  friend. 

The  extent  of  that  change  had  not  been 
noticed  by  Mrs.  Peyton,  who  had  only  ob 
served  that  Clarence  had  treated  her  grief 
with  a  grave  and  silent  respect.  She  was 
grateful  for  that.  A  repetition  of  his  boy 
ish  impulsiveness  would  have  been  distaste 
ful  to  her  at  such  a  moment.  She  only 
thought  him  more  mature  and  more  sub- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  137 

dued,  and  as  the  only  man  now  in  her  house 
hold  his  services  had  been  invaluable  in  the 
emergency. 

The  funeral  had  taken  place  at  Santa 
Inez,  where  half  the  county  gathered  to  pay 
their  last  respects  to  their  former  fellow- 
citizen  and  neighbor,  whose  legal  and  com 
bative  victories  they  had  admired,  and  whom 
death  had  lifted  into  a  public  character. 
The  family  were  returning  to  the  house  the 
same  afternoon,  Mrs.  Peyton  and  the  girls 
in  one  carriage,  the  female  house-servants 
in  another,  and  Clarence  on  horseback. 
They  had  reached  the  first  plateau,  and 
Clarence  was  riding  a  little  in  advance, 
when  an  extraordinary  figure,  rising  from 
the  grain  beyond,  began  to  gesticulate  to  him 
wildly.  Checking  the  driver  of  the  first 
carriage,  Clarence  bore  down  upon  the 
stranger.  To  his  amazement  it  was  Jim 
Hooker.  Mounted  on  a  peaceful,  unwieldy 
plough  horse,  he  was  nevertheless  accoutred 
and  armed  after  his  most  extravagant  fash 
ion.  In  addition  to  a  heavy  rifle  across  his 
saddle-bow  he  was  weighted  down  with  a 
knife  and  revolvers.  Clarence  was  in  no 
mood  for  trifling,  and  almost  rudely  de 
manded  his  business. 


138  SUSY: 

"Gord,  Clarence,  it  ain't  foolin'.  The 
Sisters'  title  was  decided  yesterday." 

"I  knew  it,  you  fool!  It's  your  title! 
You  were  already  on  your  land  and  in  pos 
session.  What  the  devil  are  you  doing 
tore?" 

"Yes, — but,"  stammered  Jim,  "all  the 
boys  holding  that  title  moved  up  here  to 
'make  the  division  '  and  grab  all  they  could. 
And  I  followed.  And  I  found  out  that  they 
were  going  to  grab  Judge  Peyton's  house, 
because  it  was  on  the  line,  if  they  could, 
and  findin'  you  was  all  away,  by  Gord  they 
did !  and  they  're  in  it !  And  I  stoled  out 
and  rode  down  here  to  warn  ye." 

He  stopped,  looked  at  Clarence,  glanced 
darkly  around  him  and  then  down  on  his 
accoutrements.  Even  in  that  supreme  mo 
ment  of  sincerity,  he  could  not  resist  the 
possibilities  of  the  situation. 

"It's  as  much  as  my  life's  worth,"  he 
said  gloomily.  "But,  "with  a  dark  glance  at 
his  weapons,  "I  '11  sell  it  dearly." 

"Jim!  "  said  Clarence,  in  a  terrible  voice, 
"you  're  not  lying  again?  " 

"No,"  said  Jim  hurriedly.  "I  swear  it, 
Clarence!  No!  Honest  Injin  this  time. 
And  look.  I  '11  help  you.  They  ain't  ex- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  139 

pectin'  you  yet,  and  they  think  ye  '11  come 
by  the  road.  Ef  I  raised  a  scare  off  there 
by  the  corral,  while  you  're  creepin'  round 
by  the  back,  mebbe  you  could  get  in  while 
they  're  all  lookin'  for  ye  in  front,  don't 
you  see  ?  I  '11  raise  a  big  row,  and  they 
needn't  know  but  what  ye 've  got  wind  of 
it  and  brought  a  party  with  you  from  Santa 
Inez." 

In  a  flash  Clarence  had  wrought  a  feasi 
ble  plan  out  of  Jim's  fantasy. 

"Good,"  he  said,  wringing  his  old  com 
panion's  hand.  "Go  back  quietly  now; 
hang  round  the  corral,  and  when  you  see 
the  carriage  climbing  the  last  terrace  raise 
your  alarm.  Don't  mind  how  loud  it  is, 
there  '11  be  nobody  but  the  servants  in  the 
carriages." 

He  rode  quickly  back  to  the  first  carriage, 
at  whose  window  Mrs.  Peyton's  calm  face 
was  already  questioning  him.  He  told  her 
briefly  and  concisely  of  the  attack,  and  what 
he  proposed  to  do. 

"You  have  shown  yourself  so  strong  in 
matters  of  worse  moment  than  this,"  he 
added  quietly,  "that  I  have  no  fears  for 
your  courage.  I  have  only  to  ask  you  to 
trust  yourself  to  me,  to  put  you  back  at  once 


140  SUSY: 

in  your  own  home.  Your  presence  there, 
just  now,  is  the  one  important  thing,  what 
ever  happens  afterwards." 

She  recognized  his  maturer  tone  and  de 
termined  manner,  and  nodded  assent.  More 
than  that,  a  faint  fire  came  into  her  hand 
some  eyes ;  the  two  girls  kindled  their  own 
at  that  flaming  beacon,  and  sat  with  flushed 
cheeks  and  suspended,  indignant  breath. 
They  were  Western  Americans,  and  not  over 
much  used  to  imposition. 

"You  must  get  down  before  we  raise  the 
hill,  and  follow  me  on  foot  through  the  grain. 
I  was  thinking,"  he  added,  turning  to  Mrs. 
Peyton,  "of  your  boudoir  window." 

She  4iad  been  thinking  of  it,  too,  and 
nodded. 

"The  vine  has  loosened  the  bars,"  he  said. 

"If  it  has  n't,  we  must  squeeze  through 
them,"  she  returned  simply. 

At  the  end  of  the  terrace  Clarence  dis 
mounted,  and  helped  them  from  the  carriage. 
He  then  gave  directions  to  the  coachmen  to 
follow  the  road  slowly  to  the  corral  in  front 
of  the  casa,  and  tied  his  horse  behind  the 
second  carriage.  Then,  with  Mrs.  Qeyton 
and  the  two  young  girls,  he  plunged  into  the 
grain. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  141 

It  was  hot,  it  was  dusty ;  their  thin  shoes 
slipped  in  the  crumbling  adobe,  and  the 
great  blades  caught  in  their  crape  draperies, 
but  they  uttered  no  complaint.  Whatever 
ulterior  thought  was  in  their  minds,  they 
were  bent  only  on  one  thing  at  that  moment, 
—  on  entering  the  house  at  any  hazard. 
Mrs.  Peyton  had  lived  long  enough  on  the 
frontier  to  know  the  magic  power  of  posses 
sion.  Susy  already  was  old  enough  to  feel 
the  acute  feminine  horror  of  the  profanation 
of  her  own  belongings  by  alien  hands. 
Clarence,  more  cognizant  of  the  whole  truth 
than  the  others,  was  equally  silent  and  de 
termined  ;  and  Mary  Kogers  was  fired  with 
the  zeal  of  loyalty. 

Suddenly  a  series  of  blood-curdling  yells 
broke  from  the  direction  of  the  corral,  and 
they  stopped.  But  Clarence  at  once  recog 
nized  the  well-known  war-whoop  imitation 
of  Jim  Hooker,  —  infinitely  more  gruesome 
and  appalling  than  the  genuine  aboriginal 
challenge.  A  half  dozen  shots  fired  in  quick 
succession  had  evidently  the  same  friendly 
origin. 

"Now  is  our  time,  "said  Clarence  eagerly. 
"We  must  run  for  the  house." 

They  had  fortunately  reached  by  this  time 


142  BUST: 

the  angle  of  the  adobe  wall  of  the  casa,  and 
the  long  afternoon  shadows  of  the  building 
were  in  their  favor.  They  pressed  forward 
eagerly  with  the  sounds  of  Jim  Hooker's 
sham  encounter  still  in  their  ears,  mingled 
with  answering  shouts  of  defiance  from 
strange  voices  within  the  building  towards 
the  front. 

They  rapidly  skirted  the  wall,  even  pass 
ing  boldly  before  the  back  gateway,  which 
seemed  empty  and  deserted,  and  the  next 
moment  stood  beside  the  narrow  window  of 
the  boudoir.  Clarence's  surmises  were  cor 
rect;  the  iron  grating  was  not  only  loose, 
but  yielded  to  a  vigorous  wrench,  the  vine 
itself  acting  as  a  lever  to  pull  out  the  rusty 
bars.  The  young  man  held  out  his  hand, 
but  Mrs.  Peyton,  with  the  sudden  agility  of 
a  young  girl,  leaped  into  the  window,  fol 
lowed  by  Mary  and  Susy.  The  inner  case 
ment  yielded  to  her  touch ;  the  next  moment 
they  were  within  the  room.  Then  Mrs. 
Peyton's  flushed  and  triumphant  face  reap 
peared  at  the  window. 

"It's  all  right;  the  men  are  all  in  the 
courtyard,  or  in  the  front  of  the  Chouse. 
The  boudoir  door  is  strong,  and  we  can  bolt 
them  out." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  143 

"It  won't  be  necessary,"  said  Clarence 
quietly;  "you  will  not  be  disturbed." 

"But  are  you  not  coming  in?  "  she  asked 
timidly,  holding  the  window  open. 

Clarence  looked  at  her  with  his  first  faint 
smile  since  Peyton's  death. 

"  Of  course  I  am,  but  not  in  that  way.  I 
am  going  in  by  the  front  gate." 

She  would  have  detained  him,  but,  with 
a  quick  wave  of  his  hand,  he  left  her,  and 
ran  swiftly  around  the  wall  of  the  casa  to 
ward  the  front.  The  gate  was  half  open ;  a 
dozen  excited  men  were  gathered  before  it 
and  in  the  archway,  and  among  them,  whit 
ened  with  dust,  blackened  with  powder,  and 
apparently  glutted  with  rapine,  and  still 
holding  a  revolver  in  his  hand,  was  Jim 
Hooker!  As  Clarence  approached,  the  men 
quickly  retreated  inside  the  gate  and  closed 
it,  but  not  before  he  had  exchanged  a  mean 
ing  glance  with  Jim.  When  he  reached  the 
gate,  a  man  from  within  roughly  demanded 
his  business. 

"I  wish  to  see  the  leader  of  this  party," 
said  Clarence  quietly. 

"I  reckon  you  do,"  returned  the  man, 
with  a  short  laugh.  "But  I  kalkilate  he 
don't  return  the  compliment." 


• 


144  SUSY: 

"He  probably  will  when  he  reads  this 
note  to  his  employer,"  continued  Clarence 
still  coolly,  selecting  a  paper  from  his  pocket- 
book.  It  was  addressed  to  Francisco  Ro- 
bles,  Superintendent  of  the  Sisters'  Title, 
and  directed  him  to  give  Mr.  Clarence  Brant 
free  access  to  the  property  and  the  fullest 
information  concerning  it.  The  man  took 
it,  glanced  at  it,  looked  again  at  Clarence, 
and  then  passed  the  paper  to  a  third  man 
among  the  group  in  the  courtyard.  The 
latter  read  it,  and  approached  the  gate  care 
lessly. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"I  am  afraid  you  have  the  advantage  of 
me  in  being  able  to  transact  business  through 
bars,"  said  Clarence,  with  slow  but  malevo 
lent  distinctness,  "and  as  mine  is  important, 
I  think  you  had  better  open  the  gate  to 
me." 

The  slight  laugh  that  his  speech  had 
evoked  from  the  bystanders  was  checked  as 
the  leader  retorted  angrily :  — 

"That 's  all  very  well;  but  how  do  I  know 
that  you  're  the  man  represented  in  that 
letter?  Pancho  Robles  may  know  you,  but 
/don't." 

"That  you  can  find  out  very  easily,"  said 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  145 

Clarence.  "There  is  a  man  among  your 
party  who  knows  me,  —  Mr.  Hooker.  Ask 
him." 

The  man  turned,  with  a  quick  mingling  of 
surprise  and  suspicion,  to  the  gloomy,  imper 
turbable  Hooker.  Clarence  could  not  hear 
the  reply  of  that  young  gentleman,  but  it 
was  evidently  not  wanting  in  his  usual  dark, 
enigmatical  exaggeration.  The  man  surlily 
opened  the  gate. 

"All  the  same,"  he  said,  still  glancing 
suspiciously  at  Hooker,  "I  don't  see  what 
he  's  got  to  do  with  you." 

"A  great  deal,"  said  Clarence,  entering 
the  courtyard,  and  stepping  into  the  veran 
da;  "Ae's  one  of  my  tenants." 

"Your  what  ?  "  said  the  man,  with  a  coarse 
laugh  of  incredulity. 

"My  tenants,"  repeated  Clarence,  glan 
cing  around  the  courtyard  carelessly.  Nev 
ertheless,  he  was  relieved  to  notice  that 
the  three  or  four  Mexicans  of  the  party 
did  not  seem  to  be  old  retainers  of  the 
rancho.  There  was  no  evidence  of  the  in 
ternal  treachery  he  had  feared. 

"Your  tenants /"  echoed  the  man,  with 
an  uneasy  glance  at  the  faces  of  the  others. 

"Yes,"  said  Clarence,  with  business  brev- 


146  SUSY: 

ity ;  "  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  although 
I  have  no  reason  to  be  particularly  proud  of 
it,  so  are  you  all.  You  ask  my  business 
here.  It  seems  to  be  the  same  as  yours,  — 
to  hold  possession  of  this  house !  With  this 
difference,  however,"  he  continued,  taking 
a  document  from  his  pocket.  "Here  is  the 
certificate,  signed  by  the  County  Clerk,  of 
the  bill  of  sale  of  the  entire  Sisters'  title 
to  me.  It  includes  the  whole  two  leagues 
from  Fair  Plains  to  the  old  boundary  line 
of  this  rancho,  which  you  forcibly  entered 
this  morning.  There  is  the  document;  ex 
amine  it  if  you  like.  The  only  shadow  of 
a  claim  you  could  have  to  this  property  you 
would  have  to  derive  from  me.  The  only 
excuse  you  could  have  for  this  act  of  lawless 
ness  would  be  orders  from  me.  And  all  that 
you  have  done  this  morning  is  only  the  as 
sertion  of  my  legal  right  to  this  house.  If 
I  disavow  your  act,  as  I  might,  I  leave 
you  as  helpless  as  any  tramp  that  was  ever 
kicked  from  a  doorstep,  —  as  any  burglar 
that  was  ever  collared  on  the  fence  by  a 
constable." 

It  was  the  truth.  There  was  no  denying 
the  authority  of  the  document,  the  facts  of 
the  situation,  or  its  ultimate  power  and  sig- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  147 

nificance.  There  was  consternation,  stupe 
faction,  and  even  a  half-humorous  recogni 
tion  of  the  absurdity  of  their  position  on 
most  of  the  faces  around  him.  Incongruous 
as  the  scene  was,  it  was  made  still  more 
grotesque  by  the  attitude  of  Jim  Hooker. 
Ruthlessly  abandoning  the  party  of  con 
victed  trespassers,  he  stalked  gloomily  over 
to  the  side  of  Clarence,  with  the  air  of  hav 
ing  been  all  the  time  scornfully  in  the  secret 
and  a  mien  of  wearied  victoriousness,  and 
thus  halting,  he  disdainfully  expectorated 
tobacco  juice  on  the  ground  between  him 
and  his  late  companions,  as  if  to  form  a  line 
of  demarcation.  The  few  Mexicans  began 
to  edge  towards  the  gateway.  This  defection 
of  his  followers  recalled  the  leader,  who  was 
no  coward,  to  himself  again. 

"Shut  the  gate,  there!  "  he  shouted. 

As  its  two  sides  clashed  together  again, 
he  turned  deliberately  to  Clarence. 

"That 's  all  very  well,  young  man,  as  re 
gards  the  title.  You  may  have  bought  up 
the  land,  and  legally  own  every  square  inch 
of  howling  wilderness  between  this  and  San 

Francisco,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  d d 

fool's  bargain ;  you  may  have  got  a  whole 
circus  like  that,"  pointing  to  the  gloomy 


148  SUSY: 

Jim,  "at  your  back.  But  with  all  your 
money  and  all  your  friends  you  've  forgotten 
one  thing.  You  have  n't  got  possession,  and 
we  have." 

"That 's  just  where  we  differ,"  said  Clar 
ence  coolly,  "for  if  you  take  the  trouble  to 
examine  the  house,  you  will  see  that  it  is 
already  in  possession  of  Mrs.  Peyton,  — my 
tenant." 

He  paused  to  give  effect  to  his  revelations. 
But  he  was,  nevertheless,  unprepared  for  an 
unrehearsed  dramatic  situation.  Mrs.  Pey 
ton,  who  had  been  tired  of  waiting,  and  was 
listening  in  the  passage,  at  the  mention  of 
her  name,  entered  the  gallery,  followed  by 
the  young  ladies.  The  slight  look  of  sur 
prise  upon  her  face  at  the  revelation  she  had 
just  heard  of  Clarence's  ownership,  only 
gave  the  suggestion  of  her  having  been  un 
expectedly  disturbed  in  her  peaceful  seclu 
sion.  One  of  the  Mexicans  turned  pale, 
with  a  frightened  glance  at  the  passage,  as 
if  he  expected  the  figure  of  the  dead  man  to 
follow. 

The  group  fell  back.  The  game  was  over, 
—  and  lost.  No  one  recognized  it»more 
quickly  than  the  gamblers  themselves. 
More  than  that,  desperate  and  lawless  as 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  149 

they  were,  they  still  retained  the  chivalry 
of  Western  men,  and  every  hat  was  slowly 
doffed  to  the  three  black  figures  that  stood 
silently  in  the  gallery.  And  even  apologetic 
speech  began  to  loosen  the  clenched  teeth  of 
the  discomfited  leader. 

"  We  —  were  —  told  there  was  no  one  in 
the  house,"  he  stammered. 

"And  it  was  the  truth,"  said  a  pert, 
youthful,  yet  slightly  affected  voice.  "For 
we  climbed  into  the  window  just  as  you  came 
in  at  the  gate." 

It  was  Susy's  words  that  stung  their  ears 
again;  but  it  was  Susy's  pretty  figure,  sud 
denly  advanced  and  in  a  slightly  theatrical 
attitude,  that  checked  their  anger.  There 
had  been  a  sudden  ominous  silence,  as  the 
whole  plot  of  rescue  seemed  to  be  revealed 
to  them  in  those  audacious  words.  But  a 
sense  of  the  ludicrous,  which  too  often  was 
the  only  perception  that  ever  mitigated  the 
passions  of  such  assemblies,  here  suddenly 
asserted  itself.  The  leader  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh,  which  was  echoed  by  the  others,  and, 
with  waving  hats,  the  whole  party  swept 
peacefully  out  through  the  gate. 

"But  what  does  all  this  mean  about  your 
purchasing  the  land,  Mr.  Brant?  "  said  Mrs. 


150  SUSY: 

Peyton  quickly,  fixing  her  eyes  intently  on 
Clarence.  * 

A  faint  color  —  the  useless  protest  of  his 
truthful  blood  —  came  to  his  cheek. 

"The  hcuse  is  yours,  and  yours  alone, 
Mrs.  Peyton.  The  purchase  of  the  sisters' 
title  was  a  private  arrangement  between 
Mr.  Peyton  and  myself,  in  view  of  an  emer 
gency  like  this." 

She  did  not,  however,  take  her  proud, 
searching  eyes  from  his  face,  and  he  was 
forced  to  turn  away. 

"It  was  so  like  dear,  good,  thoughtful 
papa,"  said  Susy.  "Why,  bless  me,"  in 
a  lower  voice,  "if  that  isn't  that  lying  old 
Jim  Hooker  standing  there  by  the  gate !  " 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  151 

• 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

JUDGE  PEYTON  had  bequeathed  his  entire 
property  unconditionally  to  his  wife.  But 
his  affairs  were  found  to  be  greatly  in  dis 
order,  and  his  papers  in  confusion,  and  al 
though  Mrs.  Peyton  could  discover  no  actual 
record  of  the  late  transaction  with  Mr.  Brant, 
which  had  saved  her  the  possession  of  the 
homestead,  it  was  evident  that  he  had  spent 
large  sums  in  speculative  attempts  to  main 
tain  the  integrity  of  his  estate.  That  enor 
mous  domain,  although  perfectly  unencum 
bered,  had  been  nevertheless  unremunerative, 
partly  through  the  costs  of  litigation  and 
partly  through  the  systematic  depredations 
to  which  its  great  size  and  long  line  of  un 
protected  boundary  had  subjected  it.  It 
had  been  invaded  by  squatters  and  "jump 
ers,"  who  had  sown  and  reaped  crops  without 
discovery;  its  cattle  and  wild  horses  had 
strayed  or  been  driven  beyond  its  ill-defined 
and  hopeless  limits.  Against  these  difficul 
ties  the  widow  felt  herself  unable  and  un- 


152  SUSY: 

willing  to  contend,  and  with  the  advice  of 
her  friends  and  her  lawyer,  she  concluded  to 
sell  the  estate,  except  that  portion  covered 
by  the  Sisters'  title,  which,  with  the  home 
stead,  had  been  reconveyed  to  her  by  Clar 
ence.  She  retired  with  Susy  to  the  house 
in  San  Francisco,  leaving  Clarence  to  oc 
cupy  and  hold  the  casa,  with  her  servants, 
for  her  until  order  was  restored.  The  Ro- 
bles  Rancho  thus  became  the  headquarters 
of  the  new  owner  of  the  Sisters'  title, 
from  which  he  administered  its  affairs,  vis 
ited  its  incumbencies,  overlooked  and  sur 
veyed  its  lands,  and  —  occasionally  —  col 
lected  its  r.ents.  There  were  not  wanting 
critics  who  averred  that  these  were  scarcely 
remunerative,  and  that  the  young  San  Fran 
cisco  fine  gentleman,  who  was  only  Hamilton 
Brant's  son,  after  all,  yet  who  wished  to 
ape  the  dignity  and  degree  of  a  large  land 
holder,  had  made  a  very  foolish  bargain. 
I  grieve  to  say  that  one  of  his  own  tenants, 
namely,  Jim  Hooker,  in  his  secret  heart  in 
clined  to  that  belief,  and  looked  upon  Clar 
ence's  speculation  as  an  act  of  far-seeing 
and  inordinate  vanity.  «, 

Indeed,  the  belligerent  Jim  had  partly  — 
and  of    course   darkly  —  intimated    some- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  153 

thing  of  this  to  Susy  in  their  brief  reunion 
at  the  casa  during  the  few  days  that  fol 
lowed  its  successful  reoccupation.  And 
Clarence,  remembering  her  older  caprices, 
and  her  remark  on  her  first  recognition  of 
him,  was  quite  surprised  at  the  easy  famil 
iarity  of  her  reception  of  this  forgotten  com 
panion  of  their  childhood.  But  he  was  still 
more  concerned  in  noticing,  for  the  first 
time,  a  singular  sympathetic  understand 
ing  of  each  other,  and  an  odd  similarity  of 
occasional  action  and  expression  between 
them.  It  was  a  part  of  this  monstrous  pe 
culiarity  that  neither  the  sympathy  nor  the 
likeness  suggested  any  particular  friendship 
or  amity  in  the  pair,  but  rather  a  mutual 
antagonism  and  suspicion.  Mrs.  Peyton, 
coldly  polite  to  Clarence's  former  compan 
ion,  but  condescendingly  gracious  to  his 
present  tenant  and  retainer,  did  not  notice 
it,  preoccupied  with  the  annoyance  and  pain 
of  Susy's  frequent  references  to  the  old  days 
of  their  democratic  equality. 

"You  don't  remember,  Jim,  the  time 
that  you  painted  my  face  in  the  wagon,  and 
got  me  up  as  an  Indian  papoose?"  she  said 
mischievously. 

But  Jim,  who  had  no  desire  to  recall  his 


154  SUSY: 

previous  humble  position  before  Mrs.  Pey 
ton  or  Clarence,  was  only  vaguely  respon 
sive.  Clarence,  although  joyfully  touched 
at  this  seeming  evidence  of  Susy's  loyalty 
to  the  past,  nevertheless  found  himself  even 
more  acutely  pained  at  the  distress  it  caused 
Mrs.  Peyton,  and  was  as  relieved  as  she 
was  by  Hooker's  reticence.  For  he  had 
seen  little  of  Susy  since  Peyton's  death,  and 
there  had  been  no  repetition  of  their  secret 
interviews.  Neither  had  he,  nor  she  as  far 
as  he  could  judge,  noticed  the  omission. 
He  had  been  more  than  usually  kind,  gen 
tle,  and  protecting  in  his  manner  towards 
her,  with  little  reference,  however,  to  any 
response  from  her,  yet  he  was  vaguely  con 
scious  of  some  change  in  his  feelings.  He 
attributed  it,  when  he  thought  of  it  at  all, 
to  the  exciting  experiences  through  which 
he  had  passed;  to  some  sentiment  of  re 
sponsibility  to  his  dead  friend ;  and  to  an 
other  secret  preoccupation  that  was  always 
in  his  mind.  He  believed  it  would  pass  in 
time.  Yet  he  felt  a  certain  satisfaction  that 
she  was  no  longer  able  to  trouble  him,  ex 
cept,  of  course,  when  she  pained  Mr^.  Pey 
ton,  and  then  he  was  half  conscious  of  tak 
ing  the  old  attitude  of  the  dead  husband  in 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  155 

mediating  between  them.  Yet  so  great  was 
his  inexperience  that  he  believed,  with  pa 
thetic  simplicity  of  perception,  that  all  this 
was  due  to  the  slow  maturing  of  his  love 
for  her,  and  that  he  was  still  able  to  make 
her  happy.  But  this  was  something  to 
be  thought  of  later.  Just  now  Providence 
seemed  to  have  offered  him  a  vocation  and 
a  purpose  that  his  idle  adolescence  had 
never  known.  He  did  not  dream  that  his 
capacity  for  patience  was  only  the  slow 
wasting  of  his  love. 

Meantime  that  more  wonderful  change 
and  recreation  of  the  Californian  landscape, 
so  familiar,  yet  always  so  young,  had  come 
to  the  rancho.  The  league -long  terrace  that 
had  yellowed,  whitened,  and  wasted  for  half 
a  year  beneath  a  staring,  monotonous  sky, 
now  under  sailing  clouds,  flying  and  broken 
shafts  of  light,  and  sharply  defined  lines  of 
rain,  had  taken  a  faint  hue  of  resurrection. 
The  dust  that  had  muffled  the  roads  and  by 
ways,  and  choked  the  low  oaks  that  fringed 
the  sunken  Canada,  had  long  since  been 
laid.  The  warm,  moist  breath  of  the  south 
west  trades  had  softened  the  hard,  dry  lines 
of  the  landscape,  and  restored  its  color  as 
of  a  picture  over  which  a  damp  sponge  had 


156  SUSY: 

been  passed.  The  broad  expanse  of  plateau 
before  the  casa  glistened  and  grew  dark. 
The  hidden  woods  of  the  Canada,  cleared 
and  strengthened  in  their  solitude,  dripped 
along  the  trails  and  hollows  that  were  now 
transformed  into  running  streams.  The 
distinguishing  madrono  near  the  entrance 
to  the  rancho  had  changed  its  crimson  sum 
mer  suit  and  masqueraded  in  buff  and 
green. 

Yet  there  were  leaden  days,  when  half  the 
prospect  seemed  to  be  seen  through  palisades 
of  rain;  when  the  slight  incline  between  the 
terraces  became  a  tumultuous  cascade,  and 
the  surest  hoofs  slipped  on  trails  of  unctu 
ous  mud;  when  cattle  were  bogged  a  few 
yards  from  the  highway,  and  the  crossing  of 
the  turnpike  road  was  a  dangerous  ford. 
There  were  days  of  gale  and  tempest,  when 
the  shriveled  stalks  of  giant  oats  were 
stricken  like  trees,  and  lay  across  each  other 
in  rigid  angles,  and  a  roar  as  of  the  sea  came 
up  from  the  writhing  treetops  in  the  sunken 
valley.  There  were  long  weary  nights  of 
steady  downpour,  hammering  on  the  red  tiles 
of  the  casa,  and  drumming  on  the  shingles 
of  the  new  veranda,  which  was  more  terri 
ble  to  be  borne.  Alone,  but  for  the  ser- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  157 

vants,  and  an  occasional  storm-stayed  ten 
ant  from  Fair  Plains,  Clarence  might  have, 
at  such  times,  questioned  the  effect  of  this 
seclusion  upon  his  impassioned  nature.  But 
he  had  already  been  accustomed  to  monastic 
seclusion  in  his  boyish  life  at  El  Refugio, 
and  he  did  not  reflect  that,  for  that  very  rea 
son,  its  indulgences  might  have  been  dan 
gerous.  From  time  to  time  letters  reached 
him  from  the  outer  world  of  San  Francisco, 
— •  a  few  pleasant  lines  from  Mrs.  Peyton, 
in  answer  to  his  own  chronicle  of  his  half 
stewardship,  giving  the  news  of  the  family, 
and  briefly  recounting  their  movements. 
She  was  afraid  that  Susy's  sensitive  nature 
chafed  under  the  restriction  of  mourning  in 
the  gay  city,  but  she  trusted  to  bring  her 
back  for  a  change  to  Robles  when  the  rains 
were  over.  This  was  a  poor  substitute  for 
those  brief,  happy  glimpses  of  the  home  cir 
cle  which  had  so  charmed  him,  but  he  ac 
cepted  it  stoically.  He  wandered  over  the 
old  house,  from  which  the  perfume  of  domes 
ticity  seemed  to  have  evaporated,  yet,  not 
withstanding  Mrs.  Peyton's  playful  permis 
sion,  he  never  intruded  upon  the  sanctity  of 
the  boudoir,  and  kept  it  jealously  locked. 
He  was  sitting  in  Peyton's  business  room 


158  SUSY: 

one  morning,  when  Incarnacion  entered. 
Clarence  had  taken  a  fancy  to  this  Indian, 
half  steward,  half  vacquero,  who  had  recip 
rocated  it  with  a  certain  dog-like  fidelity, 
but  also  a  feline  indirectness  that  was  part 
of  his  nature.  He  had  been  early  prepos 
sessed  with  Clarence  through  a  kinsman  at 
El  Refugio,  where  the  young  American's 
generosity  had  left  a  romantic  record  among 
the  common  people.  He  had  been  pleased 
to  approve  of  his  follies  before  the  know 
ledge  of  his  profitless  and  lordly  land  pur 
chase  had  commended  itself  to  him  as  cor 
roborative  testimony.  "Of  true  hidalgo 
blood,  mark  you,"  he  had  said  oracularly. 
"Wherefore  was  his  father  sacrificed  by 
mongrels !  As  to  the  others,  believe  me,  — 
bah!" 

He  stood  there,  sombrero  in  hand,  murky 
and  confidential,  steaming  through  his  soaked 
serape  and  exhaling  a  blended  odor  of  equine 
perspiration  and  cigarette  smoke. 

"It  was,  perhaps,  as  the  master  had 
noticed,  a  brigand's  own  day!  Bullying, 
treacherous,  and  wicked !  It  blew  you  otf 
your  horse  if  you  so  much  as  lifted  your 
arms  and  let  the  wind  get  inside  your  serape  ; 
and  as  for  the  mud, — caramba!  in  fifty 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  159 

varas  your  forelegs  were  like  bears,  and 
your  hoofs  were  earthen  plasters !  " 

Clarence  knew  that  Incarnacion  had  not 
sought  him  with  mere  meteorological  infor 
mation,  and  patiently  awaited  further  devel 
opments.  The  vacquero  went  on :  — 

"But  one  of  the  things  this  beast  of  a 
weather  did  was  to  wash  down  the  stalks 
of  the  grain,  and  to  clear  out  the  trough  and 
hollows  between,  and  to  make  level  the  fields, 
and  —  look  you!  to  uncover  the  stones  and 
rubbish  and  whatever  the  summer  dust  had 
buried.  Indeed,  it  was  even  as  a  miracle 
that  Jose  Mendez  one  day,  after  the  first 
showers,  came  upon  a  silver  button  from  his 
calzas,  which  he  had  lost  in  the  early  sum 
mer.  And  it  was  only  that  morning  that, 
remembering  how  much  and  with  what  fire 
Don  Clarencio  had  sought  the  missing  boot 
from  the  foot  of  the  Senor  Peyton  when  his 
body  was  found,  he,  Incarnacion,  had 
thought  he  would  look  for  it  on  the  falda 
of  the  second  terrace.  And  behold,  Mother 
of  God!  it  was  there!  Soaked  with  mud 
and  rain,  but  the  same  as  when  the  senor 
was  alive.  To  the  very  spur!  " 

He  drew  the  boot  from  beneath  his  serape 
and  laid  it  before  Clarence.  The  young 


160  SUSY: 

man  instantly  recognized  it,  in  spite  of  its 
weather-beaten  condition  and  its  air  of  gro 
tesque  and  drunken  inconsistency  to  the 
usually  trim  and  correct  appearance  of  Pey 
ton  when  alive.  "It  is  the  same,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Good!"  said  Incarnacion.  "Now,  if 
Don  Clarencio  will  examine  the  American 
spur,  he  will  see  —  what?  A  few  horse 
hairs  twisted  and  caught  in  the  sharp  points 
of  the  rowel.  Good !  Is  it  the  hair  of  the 
horse  that  Senor  rode?  Clearly  not;  and 
in  truth  not.  It  is  too  long  for  the  flanks 
and  belly  of  the  horse ;  it  is  not  the  same 
color  as  the  tail  and  the  mane.  How  comes 
it  there  ?  It  comes  from  the  twisted  horse 
hair  rope  of  a  riata,  and  not  from  the 
braided  cowhide  thongs  of  the  regular  lasso 
of  a  vacquero.  The  lasso  slips  not  much, 
but  holds ;  the  riata  slips  much  and  stran- 
gles." 

"But  Mr.  Peyton  was  not  strangled," 
said  Clarence  quickly. 

"No,  for  the  noose  of  the  riata  was  per 
haps  large, —  who  knows?  It  might  have 
slipped  down  his  arms,  pinioned  liim,  and 
pulled  him  off.  Truly !  —  such  has  been 
known  before.  Then  on  the  ground  it 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  161 

slipped  again,  or  he  perhaps  worked  it  off 
to  his  feet  where  it  caught  on  his  spur,  and 
then  he  was  dragged  until  the  boot  came  off, 
and  behold!  he  was  dead." 

This  had  been  Clarence's  own  theory  of 
the  murder,  but  he  had  only  half  confided  it 
to  Incarnacion.  He  silently  examined  the 
spur  with  the  accusing  horse-hair,  and  placed 
it  in  his  desk.  Incarnacion  continued :  — 

"There  is  not  a  vacquero  in  the  whole 
rancho  who  has  a  horse -hair  riata.  We  use 
the  braided  cowhide;  it  is  heavier  and 
stronger;  it  is  for  the  bull  and  not  the  man. 
The  horse-hair  riata  comes  from  over  the 
range  —  south." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  broken  only  by 
the  drumming  of  the  rain  upon  the  roof  of 
the  veranda.  Incarnacion  slightly  shrugged 
his  shoulders. 

"  Don  Clarencio  does  not  know  the  south 
ern  county?  Francisco  Robles,  cousin  of 
the  '  Sisters, '  —  he  they  call  '  Pancho, '  — 
comes  from  the  south.  Surely  when  Don 
Clarencio  bought  the  title  he  saw  Francisco, 
for  he  was  the  steward?  " 

"I  dealt  only  with  the  actual  owners  and 
through  my  bankers  in  San  Francisco,"  re 
turned  Clarence  abstractedly. 


162  SUSY: 

Incarnacion  looked  through  the  yellow 
corners  of  his  murky  eyes  at  his  master. 

"Pedro  Valdez,  who  was  sent  away  by 
Senor  Peyton,  is  the  foster-brother  of  Fran 
cisco.  They  were  much  together.  Now 
that  Francisco  is  rich  from  the  gold  Don 
Clarencio  paid  for  the  title,  they  come  not 
much  together.  But  Pedro  is  rich,  too. 
Mother  of  God !  He  gambles  and  is  a  fine 
gentleman.  He  holds  his  head  high,  —  even 
over  the  Americanos  he  gambles  with. 
Truly,  they  say  he  can  shoot  with  the  best 
of  them.  He  boasts  and  swells  himself, 
this  Pedro !  He  says  if  all  the  old  families 
were  like  him,  they  would  drive  those  west 
ern  swine  back  over  the  mountains  again." 

Clarence  raised  his  eyes,  caught  a  subtle 
yellow  flash  from  Incarnacion 's,  gazed  at 
him  suddenly,  and  rose. 

"I  don't  think  I  have  ever  seen  him,"  he 
said  quietly.  "  Thank  you  for  bringing  me 
the  spur.  But  keep  the  knowledge  of  it  to 
yourself,  good  Nascio,  for  the  present." 

Nascio  nevertheless  still  lingered.  Per 
ceiving  which,  Clarence  handed  him  a  cig 
arette  and  proceeded  to  light  one  Jjimself. 
He  knew  that  the  vacquero  would  reroll  his, 
and  that  that  always  deliberate  occupation 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  163 

would  cover  and  be  an  excuse  for  further 
confidence. 

"The  Senora  Peyton  does  not  perhaps 
meet  this  Pedro  in  the  society  of  San  Fran 
cisco?" 

"  Surely  not.  The  senora  is  in  mourning 
and  goes  not  out  in  society,  nor  would  she 
probably  go  anywhere  where  she  would  meet 
a  dismissed  servant  of  her  husband." 

Incarnacion  slowly  lit  his  cigarette,  and 
said  between  the  puffs,  "And  the  senorita 
—  she  would  not  meet  him?  " 

"Assuredly  not." 

"And,"  continued  Incarnacion,  throwing 
down  the  match  and  putting  his  foot  on  it, 
"if  this  boaster,  this  turkey-cock,  says  she 
did,  you  could  put  him  out  like  that?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Clarence,  with  an  easy 
confidence  he  was,  however,  far  from  feel 
ing,  "if  he  really  said  it  —  which  I  doubt." 

"Ah,  truly,"  said  Incarnacion;  "who 
knows  ?  It  may  be  another  Senorita  Sils- 
bee." 

"The  senora' s  adopted  daughter  is  called 
Miss  Peyton,  friend  Nascio.  You  forget 
yourself,"  said  Clarence  quietly. 

"Ah,  pardon!"  said  Incarnacion  with 
effusive  apology ;  "but  she  was  born  Silsbee. 


164  SUSY: 

Everybody  knows  it ;  she  herself  has  told  it 
to  Pepita.  The  Seiior  Peyton  bequeathed 
his  estate  to  the  Senora  Peyton.  He  named 
not  the  senorita!  Eh,  what  would  you?  It 
is  the  common  cackle  of  the  barnyard.  But 
/  say '  Mees  Silsbee. '  For  look  you.  There 
is  a  Silsbee  of  Sacramento,  the  daughter  of 
her  aunt,  who  writes  letters  to  her.  Pepita 
has  seen  them !  And  possibly  it  is  only  that 
Mees  of  whom  the  brigand  Pedro  boasts." 

"Possibly,"  said  Clarence,  "but  as  far  as 
this  rancho  is  concerned,  friend  Nascio,  thou 
wilt  understand  —  and  I  look  to  thee  to 
make  the  others  understand  —  that  there  is 
no  Senorita  Silsbee  here,  only  the  Senor 
ita  Peyton,  the  respected  daughter  of  the 
senora  thy  mistress!"  He  spoke  with  the 
quaint  mingling  of  familiarity  and  paternal 
gravity  of  the  Spanish  master  —  a  faculty 
he  had  acquired  at  El  Refugio  in  a  like 
vicarious  position,  and  which  never  failed 
as  a  sign  of  authority.  "And  now,"  he 
added  gravely,  "get  out  of  this,  friend,  with 
God's  blessing,  and  see  that  thou  remem- 
berest  what  I  told  thee." 

The  retainer,  with  equal  gravity,.stepped 
backwards,  saluted  with  his  sombrero  until 
the  stiff  brim  scraped  the  floor,  and  then 
solemnly  withdrew. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  165 

Left  to  himself,  Clarence  remained  for  an 
instant  silent  and  thoughtful  before  the 
oven-like  hearth.  So!  everybody  knew 
Susy's  real  relations  to  the  Peytons,  and 
everybody  but  Mrs.  Peyton,  perhaps,  knew 
that  she  was  secretly  corresponding  with 
some  one  of  her  own  family.  In  other  cir 
cumstances  he  might  have  found  some  ex 
cuse  for  this  assertion  of  her  independence 
and  love  of  her  kindred,  but  in  her  attitude 
towards  Mrs.  Peyton  it  seemed  monstrous. 
It  appeared  impossible  that  Mrs.  Peyton 
should  not  have  heard  of  it,  or  suspected 
the  young  girl's  disaffection.  Perhaps  she 
had,  —  it  was  another  burden  laid  upon  her 
shoulders,  —  but  the  proud  woman  had  kept 
it  to  herself.  A  film  of  moisture  came  across 
his  eyes.  I  fear  he  thought  less  of  the  sug 
gestion  of  Susy's  secret  meeting  with  Pedro, 
or  Incarnacion's  implied  suspicions  that 
Pedro  was  concerned  in  Peyton's  death, 
than  of  this  sentimental  possibility.  He 
knew  that  Pedro  had  been  hated  by  the 
others  on  account  of  his  position ;  he  knew 
the  instinctive  jealousies  of  the  race  and 
their  predisposition  to  extravagant  miscon 
struction.  From  what  he  had  gathered,  and 
particularly  from  the  voices  he  had  over- 


166  SUSY: 

heard  on  the  Fair  Plains  Road,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  Pedro  was  more  capable  of  merce 
nary  intrigue  than  physical  revenge.  He 
was  not  aware  of  the  irrevocable  affront  put 
upon  Pedro  by  Peyton,  and  he  had  conse 
quently  attached  no  importance  to  Peyton's 
own  half  -  scornful  intimation  of  the  only 
kind  of  retaliation  that  Pedro  would  be 
likely  to  take.  The  unsuccessful  attempt 
upon  himself  he  had  always  thought  might 
have  been  an  accident,  or  if  it  was  really  a 
premeditated  assault,  it  might  have  been  in 
tended  actually  for  himself  and  not  Peyton, 
as  he  had  first  thought,  and  his  old  friend 
had  suffered  for  him,  through  some  mistake 
of  the  assailant.  The  purpose,  which  alone 
seemed  wanting,  might  have  been  to  remove 
Clarence  as  a  possible  witness  who  had  over 
heard  their  conspiracy  —  how  much  of  it 
they  did  not  know  —  on  the  Fair  Plains 
Road  that  night.  The  only  clue  he  held  to 
the  murderer  in  the  spur  locked  in  his  desk, 
merely  led  him  beyond  the  confines  of  the 
rancho,  but  definitely  nowhere  else.  It  was, 
however,  some  relief  to  know  that  the  crime 
was  not  committed  by  one  of  Pey tori's  re 
tainers,  nor  the  outcome  of  domestic  treach 
ery. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  167 

After  some  consideration  he  resolved  to 
seek  Jim  Hooker,  who  might  be  possessed 
of  some  information  respecting  Susy's  rela 
tions,  either  from  the  young  girl's  own  con 
fidences  or  from  Jim's  personal  knowledge 
of  the  old  frontier  families.  From  a  sense 
of  loyalty  to  Susy  and  Mrs.  Peyton,  he  had 
never  alluded  to  the  subject  before  him,  but 
since  the  young  girl's  own  indiscretion  had 
made  it  a  matter  of  common  report,  however 
distasteful  it  was  to  his  own  feelings,  he  felt 
he  could  not  plead  the  sense  of  delicacy  for 
her.  He  had  great  hopes  in  what  he  had 
always  believed  was  only  her  exaggeration 
of  fact  as  well  as  feeling.  And  he  had  an 
instinctive  reliance  on  her  fellow  poseur's 
ability  to  detect  it.  A  few  days  later,  when 
he  found  he  could  safely  leave  the  rancho 
alone,  he  rode  to  Fair  Plains. 

The  floods  were  out  along  the  turnpike 
road,  and  even  seemed  to  have  increased 
since  his  last  journey.  The  face  of  the  land 
scape  had  changed  again.  One  of  the  lower 
terraces  had  become  a  wild  mere  of  sedge 
and  reeds.  The  dry  and  dusty  bed  of  a  for 
gotten  brook  had  reappeared,  a  full-banked 
river,  crossing  the  turnpike  and  compelling 
a  long  detour  before  the  traveler  could  ford 


168  SUS  Y: 

it.  But  as  he  approached  the  Hopkins 
farm  and  the  opposite  clearing  and  cabin  of 
Jim  Hooker,  he  was  quite  unprepared  for  a 
still  more  remarkable  transformation.  The 
cabin,  a  three-roomed  structure,  and  its  cat 
tle-shed  had  entirely  disappeared!  There 
were  no  traces  or  signs  of  inundation.  The 
land  lay  on  a  gentle  acclivity  above  the  farm 
and  secure  from  the  effects  of  the  flood,  and 
a  part  of  the  ploughed  and  cleared  land 
around  the  site  of  the  cabin  showed  no  evi 
dence  of  overflow  on  its  black,  upturned  soil. 
But  the  house  was  gone !  Only  a  few  tim 
bers  too  heavy  to  be  removed,  the  blighting 
erasions  of  a  few  months  of  occupation,  and 
the  dull,  blackened  area  of  the  site  itself 
were  to  be  seen.  The  fence  alone  was  in 
tact. 

Clarence  halted  before  it,  perplexed  and 
astonished.  Scarcely  two  weeks  had  elapsed 
since  he  had  last  visited  it  and  sat  beneath 
its  roof  with  Jim,  and  ahead}7  its  few  ruins 
had  taken  upon  themselves  the  look  of  years 
of  abandonment  and  decay.  The  wild  land 
seemed  to  have  thrown  off  its  yoke  of  culti 
vation  in  a  night,  and  nature  riotei  again 
with  all  its  primal  forces  over  the  freed  soil. 
Wild  oats  and  mustard  were  springing  al- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  169 

ready  in  the  broken  furrows,  and  lank  vines 
were  slimily  spreading  over  a  few  scattered 
but  still  unseasoned  and  sappy  shingles. 
Some  battered  tin  cans  and  fragments  of 
old  clothing  looked  as  remote  as  if  they  had 
been  relics  of  the  earliest  immigration. 

Clarence  turned  inquiringly  towards  the 
Hopkins  farmhouse  across  the  road.  His 
arrival,  however,  had  already  been  noticed, 
as  the  door  of  the  kitchen  opened  in  an  an 
ticipatory  fashion,  and  he  could  see  the  slight 
figure  of  Phoebe  Hopkins  in  the  doorway, 
backed  by  the  overlooking  heads  and  shoul 
ders  of  her  parents.  The  face  of  the  young 
girl  was  pale  and  drawn  with  anxiety,  at 
which  Clarence's  simple  astonishment  took 
a  shade  of  concern. 

"I  am  looking  for  Mr.  Hooker,"  he  said 
uneasily.  "And  I  don't  seem  to  be  able  to 
find  either  him  or  his  house." 

"And  you  don't  know  what's  gone  of 
him?  "  said  the  girl  quickly. 

"No;  I  haven't  seen  him  for  two  weeks." 

"There,  I  told  you  so!"  said  the  girl, 
turning  nervously  to  her  parents.  "I  knew 
it.  He  hasn't  seen  him  for  two  weeks." 
Then,  looking  almost  tearfully  at  Clarence's 
face,  she  said,  "No  more  have  we." 


170  SUSY: 

"But,  "said  Clarence  impatiently,  "some 
thing  must  have  happened.  Where  is  his 
house?" 

"Taken  away  by  them  jumpers,"  inter 
rupted  the  old  farmer;  ua  lot  of  roughs 
that  pulled  it  down  and  carted  it  off  in  a 
jiffy  before  our  very  eyes  without  answerin' 
a  civil  question  to  me  or  her.  But  he  was  n't 
there,  nor  before,  nor  since." 

"No,"  added  the  old  woman,  with  flash 
ing  eyes,  "or  he  'd  let  'em  have  what  ther' 
was  in  his  six-shooters." 

"No,  he  wouldn't,  mother,"  said  the  girl 
impatiently,  "he  'd  changed,  and  was  agin 
all  them  ideas  of  force  and  riotin'.  He  was 
for  peace  and  law  all  the  time.  Why,  the 
day  before  we  missed  him  he  was  tellin' 
me  California  never  would  be  decent  until 
people  obeyed  the  laws  and  the  titles  were 
settled.  And  for  that  reason,  because  he 
would  n't  fight  agin  the  law,  or  without  the 
consent  of  the  law,  they  've  killed  him,  or 
kidnapped  him  away." 

The  girl  Is  lips  quivered,  and  her  small 
brown  hands  twisted  the  edges  of  her  blue 
checked  apron.  Although  this  new«picture 
of  Jim's  peacefulness  was  as  astounding  and 
unsatisfactory  as  his  own  disappearance, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  171 

there  was  no  doubt  of  the  sincerity  of  poor 
Phoebe's  impression. 

In  vain  did  Clarence  point  out  to  them 
there  must  be  some  mistake ;  that  the  tres 
passers  —  the  so-called  jumpers  —  really  be 
longed  to  the  same  party  as  Hooker,  and 
would  have  no  reason  to  dispossess  him; 
that,  in  fact,  they  were  all  his,  Clarence's, 
tenants.  In  vain  he  assured  them  of  Hook 
er's  perfect  security  in  possession;  that  he 
could  have  driven  the  intruders  away  by  the 
simple  exhibition  of  his  lease,  or  that  he 
could  have  even  called  a  constable  from  the 
town  of  Fair  Plains  to  protect  him  from 
mere  lawlessness.  In  vain  did  he  assure 
them  of  his  intention  to  find  his  missing 
friend,  and  reinstate  him  at  any  cost.  The 
conviction  that  the  unfortunate  young  man 
had  been  foully  dealt  with  was  fixed  in  the 
minds  of  the  two  women.  For  a  moment 
Clarence  himself  was  staggered  by  it. 

"You  see,"  said  the  young  girl,  with  a 
kindling  face,  "the  day  before  he  came  back 
from  Kobles,  ther'  were  some  queer  men 
hangin'  round  his  cabin,  but  as  they  were 
the  same  kind  that  went  off  with  him  the 
day  the  Sisters'  title  was  confirmed,  we 
thought  nothing  of  it.  But  when  he  came 


172  SUSY: 

back  from  you  he  seemed  worried  and  anx 
ious,  and  wasn't  a  bit  like  himself.  We 
thought  perhaps  he  'd  got  into  some  trouble 
there,  or  been  disappointed.  He  hadn't, 
had  he,  Mr.  Brant?"  continued  Phoebe, 
with  an  appealing  look. 

"By  no  means,"  said  Clarence  warmly. 
"On  the  contrary,  he  was  able  to  do  his 
friends  good  service  there,  and  was  success 
ful  in  what  he  attempted.  Mrs.  Peyton 
was  very  grateful.  Of  course  he  told  you 
what  had  happened,  and  what  he  did  for 
us,"  continued  Clarence,  with  a  smile. 

He  had  already  amused  himself  on  the 
way  with  a  fanciful  conception  of  the  exag 
gerated  account  Jim  had  given  of  his  ex 
ploits.  But  the  bewildered  girl  shook  her 
head. 

"No,  he  didn't  tell  us  anything"'' 

Clarence  was  really  alarmed.  This  un 
precedented  abstention  of  Hooker's  was  por 
tentous. 

"He  didn't  say  anything  but  what  I  told 
you  about  law  and  order,"  she  went  on; 
"but  that  same  night  we  heard  a  good  deal 
of  talking  and  shouting  in  the  cabin  and 
around  it.  And  the  next  day  he  was  talk 
ing  with  father,  and  wanting  to  know  how 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  173 

fie  kept  his  land  without  trouble  from  out 
siders." 

"And  I  said,"  broke  in  Hopkins,  "that 
I  guessed  folks  didn't  bother  a  man  with 
women  folks  around,  and  that  I  kalkilated 
that  1  wasn't  quite  as  notorious  for  fightin' 
as  he  was." 

"And  he  said,"  also  interrupted  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  "and  quite  in  his  nat'ral  way, 
too, — gloomy  like,  you  remember,  Cyrus," 
appealingly  to  her  husband,  —  "that  that 
was  his  curse." 

The  smile  that  flickered  around  Clarence's 
mouth  faded,  however,  as  he  caught  sight 
of  Phoabe's  pleading,  interrogating  eyes. 
It  was  really  too  bad.  Whatever  change 
had  come  over  the  rascal  it  was  too  evident 
that  his  previous  belligerent  personality  had 
had  its  full  effect  upon  the  simple  girl,  and 
that,  hereafter,  one  pair  of  honest  eyes 
would  be  wistfully  following  him. 

Perplexed  and  indignant,  Clarence  again 
closely  questioned  her  as  to  the  personnel  of 
the  trespassing  party  who  had  been  seen 
once  or  twice  since  passing  over  the  field. 
He  had  at  last  elicited  enough  information 
to  identify  one  of  them  as  Gilroy,  the 
leader  of  the  party  that  had  invaded  Robles 


174  SUSY: 

Rancho.  His  cheek  flushed.  Even  if  they 
had  wished  to  take  a  theatrical  and  momen 
tary  revenge  on  Hooker  for  the  passing 
treachery  to  them  which  they  had  just  dis 
covered,  although  such  retaliation  was  only 
transitory,  and  they  could  not  hold  the  land, 
it  was  an  insult  to  Clarence  himself,  whose 
tenant  Jim  was,  and  subversive  of  all  their 
legally  acquired  rights.  He  would  confront 
this  Gilroy  at  once;  his  half -wild  encamp 
ment  was  only  a  few  miles  away,  just  over 
the  boundaries  of  the  Robles  estate.  With 
out  stating  his  intention,  he  took  leave  of 
the  Hopkins  family  with  the  cheerful  assur 
ance  that  he  would  probably  return  with 
some  news  of  Hooker,  and  rode  away. 

The  trail  became  more  indistinct  and 
unfrequented  as  it  diverged  from  the  main 
road,  and  presently  lost  itself  in  the  slope 
towards  the  east.  The  horizon  grew  larger : 
there  were  faint  bluish  lines  upon  it  which 
he  knew  were  distant  mountains;  beyond 
this  a  still  fainter  white  line  —  the  Sierran 
snows.  Presently  he  intersected  a  trail 
running  south,  and  remarked  that  it  crossed 
the  highway  behind  him,  where  he  had  once 
met  the  two  mysterious  horsemen.  They 
had  evidently  reached  the  terrace  through 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  175 

the  wild  oats  by  that  trail.  A  little  far 
ther  on  were  a  few  groups  of  sheds  and  can 
vas  tents  in  a  bare  and  open  space,  with 
scattered  cattle  and  horsemen,  exactly  like 
an  encampment,  or  the  gathering  of  a  coun 
try  fair.  As  Clarence  rode  down  towards 
them  he  could  see  that  his  approach  was 
instantly  observed,  and  that  a  simultaneous 
movement  was  made  as  if  to  anticipate  him. 
For  the  first  time  he  realized  the  possible 
consequences  of  his  visit,  single-handed,  but 
it  was  too  late  to  retrace  his  steps.  With 
a  glance  at  his  holster,  he  rode  boldly  for 
ward  to  the  nearest  shed.  A  dozen  men 
hovered  near  him,  but  something  in  his 
quiet,  determined  manner  held  them  aloof. 
Gilroy  was  on  the  threshold  in  his  shirt 
sleeves.  A  single  look  showed  him  that 
Clarence  was  alone,  and  with  a  careless  ges 
ture  of  his  hand  he  warned  away  his  own 
followers. 

"You  've  got  a  sort  of  easy  way  of  drop- 
pin'  in  whar  you  ain't  invited,  Brant,"  he 
said  with  a  grim  smile,  which  was  not,  how 
ever,  without  a  certain  air  of  approval. 
"Got  it  from  your  father,  didn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  don't  believe  he 
ever  thought  it  necessary  to  warn  twenty 


176  SUSY: 

men  of  the  approach  of  one,"  replied  Clar 
ence,  in  the  same  tone.  "I  had  no  time  to 
stand  on  ceremony,  for  I  have  just  come 
from  Hooker's  quarter  section  at  Fair 
Plains." 

Gilroy  smiled  again,  and  gazed  abstract 
edly  at  the  sky. 

"You  know  as  well  as  I  do,"  said  Clar 
ence,  controlling  his  voice  with  an  effort, 
"  that  what  you  have  done  there  will  have  to 
be  undone,  if  you  wish  to  hold  even  those 
lawless  men  of  yours  together,  or  keep  your 
self  and  them  from  being  run  into  the  brush 
like  highwaymen.  I  've  no  fear  for  that. 
Neither  do  I  care  to  know  what  was  your 
motive  in  doing  it;  but  I  can  only  tell  you 
that  if  it  was  retaliation,  I  alone  was  and 
still  am  responsible  for  Hooker's  action  at 
the  rancho.  I  came  here  to  know  just  what 
you  have  done  with  him,  and,  if  necessary, 
to  take  his  place." 

"You  're  just  a  little  too  previous  in  your 
talk,  I  reckon,  Brant,"  returned  Gilroy 
lazily,  "and  as  to  legality,  I  reckon  we 
stand  on  the  same  level  with  yourself,  just 
here.  Beginnin'  with  what  you  ca*ie  for: 
as  we  don't  know  where  your  Jim  Hooker 
is,  and  as  we  ain't  done  any  thin'  to  him,  we 


A  STOUT  OF  THE  PLAINS.  177 

don't  exackly  see  what  we  could  do  with 
you  in  his  place.  Ez  to  our  motives,  — 
well,  we  've  got  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
that.  We  reckoned  that  he  wasn't  exackly 
the  kind  of  man  we  wanted  for  a  neighbor. 
His  pow'ful  fightin'  style  didn't  suit  us 
peaceful  folks,  and  we  thought  it  rather 
worked  agin  this  new  'law  and  order  '  racket 
to  have  such  a  man  about,  to  say  nuthin'  of 
it  prejudicin'  quiet  settlers.  He  had  too 
many  revolvers  for  one  man  to  keep  his  eye 
on,  and  was  altogether  too  much  steeped  in 
blood,  so  to  speak,  for  ordinary  washin'  and 
domestic  purposes !  His  hull  get  up  was  too 
deathlike  and  clammy ;  so  we  persuaded  him 
to  leave.  We  just  went  there,  all  of  us, 
and  exhorted  him.  We  stayed  round  there 
two  days  and  nights,  takin'  turns,  talkin' 
with  him,  nuthin'  more,  only  selecting  sub 
jects  in  his  own  style  to  please  him,  until  he 
left !  And  then,  as  we  did  n't  see  any  use 
for  his  house  there,  we  took  it  away.  Them  's 
the  cold  facts,  Brant,"  he  added,  with  a  cer 
tain  convincing  indifference  that  left  no 
room  for  doubt,  "and  you  can  stand  by  'em. 
Now,  workin'  back  to  the  first  principle  you 
laid  down,  —  that  we  '11  have  to  undo  what 
we  've  done,  —  we  don't  agree  with  you, 


178  SUSY: 

for  we  've  taken  a  leaf  outer  your  own  book. 
We  've  got  it  here  in  black  and  white. 
We  've  got  a  bill  o'  sale  of  Hooker's  house 
and  possession,  and  we  're  on  the  land  in 
place  of  him,  — as  your  tenants."  He  re- 
entered  the  shanty,  took  a  piece  of  paper 
from  a  soap-box  on  the  shelf,  and  held  it 
out  to  Clarence.  "Here  it  is.  It's  a  fair 
and  square  deal,  Brant.  We  gave  him,  as 
it  says  here,  a  hundred  dollars  for  it !  No 
humbuggin',  but  the  hard  cash,  by  Jiminy! 
And  he  took  the  money." 

The  ring  of  truth  in  the  man's  voice  was 
as  unmistakable  as  the  signature  in  Jim's 
own  hand.  Hooker  had  sold  out !  Clarence 
turned  hastily  away. 

"We  don't  know  where  he  went,  "contin 
ued  Gilroy  grimly,  "but  I  reckon  you  ain't 
over  anxious  to  see  him  now.  And  I  kin 
tell  ye  something  to  ease  your  mind,  —  he 
did  n't  require  much  persuadin'.  And  I 
kin  tell  ye  another,  if  jre  ain't  above  takin' 
advice  from  folks  that  don't  pertend  to  give 
it,"  he  added,  with  the  same  curious  look  of 
interest  in  his  face.  "You  've  done  well  to 
get  shut  of  him,  and  if  you  got  shut  of  a 
few  more  of  his  kind  that  you  trust  to, 
you  'd  do  better." 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  179 

As  if  to  avoid  noticing  any  angry  reply 
from  the  young  man,  he  reentered  the  cabin 
and  shut  the  door  behind  him.  Clarence 
felt  the  uselessness  of  further  parley,  and 
rode  away. 

But  Gilroy's  Parthian  arrow  rankled  as 
he  rode.  He  was  not  greatly  shocked  at 
Jim's  defection,  for  he  was  always  fully 
conscious  of  his  vanity  and  weakness ;  but 
he  was  by  no  means  certain  that  Jim's  ex 
travagance  and  braggadocio,  which  he  had 
found  only  amusing  and,  perhaps,  even  pa 
thetic,  might  not  be  as  provocative  and  pre 
judicial  to  others  as  Gilroy  had  said.  But, 
like  all  sympathetic  and  unselfish  natures, 
he  sought  to  find  some  excuse  for  his  old 
companion's  weakness  in  his  own  mistaken 
judgment.  He  had  no  business  to  bring 
poor  Jim  on  the  land,  to  subject  his  singular 
temperament  to  the  temptations  of  such  a 
life  and  such  surroundings ;  he  should  never 
have  made  use  of  his  services  at  the  rancho. 
He  had  done  him  harm  rather  than  good  in 
his  ill-advised,  and,  perhaps,  selfish  attempts 
to  help  him.  I  have  said  that  Gilroy's 
parting  warning  rankled  in  his  breast,  but 
not  ignobly.  It  wounded  the  surface  of  his 
sensitive  nature,  but  could  not  taint  or  cor- 


180  8U8T: 

rupt  the  pure,  wholesome  blood  of  the  gen 
tleman  beneath  it.  For  in  Gilroy's  warning 
he  saw  only  his  own  shortcomings.  A  strange 
fatality  had  marked  his  friendships.  He 
had  been  no  help  to  Jim ;  he  had  brought 
no  happiness  to  Susy  or  Mrs.  Peyton,  whose 
disagreement  his  visit  seemed  to  have  ac 
cented.  Thinking  over  the  mysterious  at 
tack  upon  himself,  it  now  seemed  to  him 
possible  that,  in  some  obscure  way,  his  pres 
ence  at  the  rancho  had  precipitated  the  more 
serious  attack  on  Peyton.  If,  as  it  had 
been  said,  there  was  some  curse  upon  his 
inheritance  from  his  father,  he  seemed  to 
have  made  others  share  it  with  him.  He 
was  riding  onward  abstractedly,  with  his 
head  sunk  on  his  breast  and  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  some  vague  point  between  his  horse's 
sensitive  ears,  when  a  sudden,  intelligent, 
forward  pricking  of  them  startled  him,  and 
an  apparition  arose  from  the  plain  before 
him  that  seemed  to  sweep  all  other  sense 
away. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  handsome  young 
horseman  as  abstracted  as  himself,  but  evi 
dently  on  better  terms  with  his  own  person 
ality.  He  was  dark  haired,  sallow  cheeked, 
and  blue  eyed,  —  the  type  of  the  old  Span- 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  181 

ish  Californian.  A  burnt-out  cigarette  was 
in  his  mouth,  and  he  was  riding  a  roan  mus 
tang  with  the  lazy  grace  of  his  race.  But 
what  arrested  Clarence's  attention  more 
than  his  picturesque  person  was  the  nar 
row,  flexible,  long  coil  of  gray  horse-hair 
riata  which  hung  from  his  saddle-bow,  but 
whose  knotted  and  silver-beaded  terminat 
ing  lash  he  was  swirling  idly  in  his  narrow 
brown  hand.  Clarence  knew  and  instantly 
recognized  it  as  the  ordinary  fanciful  appen 
dage  of  a  gentleman  rider,  used  for  tether 
ing  his  horse  on  lonely  plains,  and  always 
made  the  object  of  the  most  lavish  expendi 
ture  of  decoration  and  artistic  skill.  But 
he  was  as  suddenly  filled  with  a  blind,  un 
reasoning  sense  of  repulsion  and  fury,  and 
lifted  his  eyes  to  the  man  as  he  approached. 
What  the  stranger  saw  in  Clarence's  blaz 
ing  eyes  no  one  but  himself  knew,  for  his 
own  became  fixed  and  staring;  his  sallow 
cheeks  grew  lanker  and  livid ;  his  careless, 
jaunty  bearing  stiffened  into  rigidity,  and 
swerving  his  horse  to  one  side  he  suddenly 
passed  Clarence  at  a  furious  gallop.  The 
young  American  wheeled  quickly,  and  for 
an  instant  his  knees  convulsively  gripped 
the  flanks  of  his  horse  to  follow.  But  the 


182  SUSY: 

next  moment  he  recalled  himself,  and  with 
an  effort  began  to  collect  his  thoughts. 
What  was  he  intending  to  do,  and  for  what 
reason!  He  had  met  hundreds  of  such 
horsemen  before,  and  caparisoned  and  ac 
coutred  like  this,  even  to  the  riata.  And 
he  certainly  was  not  dressed  like  either  of 
the  mysterious  horsemen  whom  he  had  over 
heard  that  moonlight  evening.  He  looked 
back;  the  stranger  had  already  slackened 
his  pace,  and  was  slowly  disappearing. 
Clarence  turned  and  rode  on  his  way. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAIN 8.  183 


CHAPTER   IX. 

WITHOUT  disclosing  the  full  extent  of 
Jim's  defection  and  desertion,  Clarence  was 
able  to  truthfully  assure  the  Hopkins  family 
of  his  personal  safety,  and  to  promise  that 
he  would  continue  his  quest,  and  send  them 
further  news  of  the  absentee.  He  believed 
it  would  be  found  that  Jim  had  been  called 
away  on  some  important  business,  but  that 
not  daring  to  leave  his  new  shanty  exposed 
and  temptingly  unprotected,  he  had  made  a 
virtue  of  necessity  by  selling  it  to  his  neigh 
bors,  intending  to  build  a  better  house  on 
its  site  after  his  return.  Having  comforted 
Phoebe,  and  impulsively  conceived  further 
plans  for  restoring  Jim  to  her,  —  happily 
without  any  recurrence  of  his  previous 
doubts  as  to  his  own  efficacy  as  a  special 
Providence,  —  he  returned  to  the  rancho. 
If  he  thought  again  of  Jim's  defection  and 
Gilroy's  warning,  it  was  only  to  strengthen 
himself  to  a  clearer  perception  of  his  un 
selfish  duty  and  singleness  of  purpose.  He 


184  SUSY: 

would  give  up  brooding,  apply  himself  more 
practically  to  the  management  of  the  prop 
erty,  carry  out  his  plans  for  the  foundation 
of  a  Landlords'  Protective  League  for  the 
southern  counties,  become  a  candidate  for 
the  Legislature,  and,  in  brief,  try  to  fill 
Peyton's  place  in  the  county  as  he  had  at 
the  rancho.  He  would  endeavor  to  become 
better  acquainted  with  the  half-breed  labor 
ers  on  the  estate  and  avoid  the  friction  be 
tween  them  and  the  Americans ;  he  was  con 
scious  that  he  had  not  made  that  use  of  his 
early  familiarity  with  their  ways  and  lan 
guage  which  he  might  have  done.  If,  oc 
casionally,  the  figure  of  the  young  Spaniard 
whom  he  had  met  on  the  lonely  road  ob 
truded  itself  on  him,  it  was  always  with  the 
instinctive  premonition  that  he  would  meet 
him  again,  and  the  mystery  of  the  sudden 
repulsion  be  in  some  way  explained.  Thus 
Clarence !  But  the  momentary  impulse  that 
had  driven  him  to  Fair  Plains,  the  eager 
ness  to  set  his  mind  at  rest  regarding  Susy 
and  her  relatives,  he  had  utterly  forgotten. 

Howbeit  some  of  the  energy  and  enthusi 
asm  that  he  breathed  into  these  jrarious 
essays  made  their  impression.  He  succeeded 
in  forming  the  Landlords'  League;  under  a 


A  STORY  OF  TEE  PLAINS.  185 

commission  suggested  by  him  the  straggling 
boundaries  of  Roblesand  the  adjacent  claims 
were  resurveyed,  defined,  and  mutually  pro 
tected;  even  the  lawless  Gilroy,  from  ex 
tending  an  amused  toleration  to  the  young 
administrator,  grew  to  recognize  and  accept 
him ;  the  peons  and  vacqueros  began  to  have 
faith  in  a  man  who  acknowledged  them 
sufficiently  to  rebuild  the  ruined  Mission 
Chapel  on  the  estate,  and  save  them  the 
long  pilgrimage  to  Santa  Inez  on  Sundays 
and  saints'  days;  the  San  Francisco  priest 
imported  from  Clarence's  old  college  at  San 
Jose,  and  an  habitual  guest  at  Clarence's 
hospitable  board,  was  grateful  enough  to  fill 
his  flock  with  loyalty  to  the  young  padron. 

He  had  returned  from  a  long  drive  one 
afternoon,  and  had  just  thrown  himself  into 
an  easy-chair  with  the  comfortable  conscious 
ness  of  a  rest  fairly  earned.  The  dull  em 
bers  of  a  fire  occasionally  glowed  in  the  oven- 
like  hearth,  although  the  open  casement  of 
a  window  let  in  the  soft  breath  of  the  south 
west  trades.  The  angelus  had  just  rung 
from  the  restored  chapel,  and,  mellowed  by 
distance,  seemed  to  Clarence  to  lend  that 
repose  to  the  wind-swept  landscape  that  it 
had  always  lacked. 


186  SUSY: 

Suddenly  his  quick  ear  detected  the  sound 
of  wheels  in  the  ruts  of  the  carriage  way. 
Usually  his  visitors  to  the  casa  came  on 
horseback,  and  carts  and  wagons  used  only 
the  lower  road.  As  the  sound  approached 
nearer,  an  odd  fancy  filled  his  heart  with 
unaccountable  pleasure.  Could  it  be  Mrs. 
Peyton  making  an  unexpected  visit  to  the 
rancho?  He  held  his  breath.  The  vehicle 
was  now  rolling  on  into  the  patio.  The 
clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  halt  were  followed  by 
the  accents  of  women's  voices.  One  seemed 
familiar.  He  rose  quickly,  as  light  foot 
steps  ran  along  the  corridor,  and  then  the 
door  opened  impetuously  to  the  laughing 
face  of  Susy! 

He  came  towards  her  hastily,  yet  with 
only  the  simple  impulse  of  astonishment. 
He  had  no  thought  of  kissing  her,  but  as  he 
approached,  she  threw  her  charming  head 
archly  to  one  side,  with  a  mischievous  knit 
ting  of  her  brows  and  a  significant  gesture 
towards  the  passage,  that  indicated  the 
proximity  of  a  stranger  and  the  possibility 
of  interruption. 

"Hush!  Mrs.  McClosky  's  he?e,"  she 
whispered. 

"Mrs.  McClosky?"  repeated  Clarence 
vaguely. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  187 

"Yes,  of  course,"  impatiently.  "My 
Aunt  Jane.  Silly!  We  just  cut  away  down 
here  to  surprise  you.  Aunty  's  never  seen 
the  place,  and  here  was  a  good  chance." 

"And  your  mother  —  Mrs.  Peyton  ?  Has 
she  —  does  she?" —  stammered  Clarence. 

"Has  she  —  does  she?"  mimicked  Susy, 
with  increasing  impatience.  "Why,  of 
course  she  doesn't  know  anything  about  it. 
She  thinks  I  'm  visiting  Mary  Rogers  at 
Oakland.  And  I  am  —  afterwards,"  she 
laughed.  "I  just  wrote  to  Aunt  Jane  to 
meet  me  at  Alameda,  and  we  took  the  stage 
to  Santa  Inez  and  drove  on  here  in  a  buggy. 
Wasn't  it  real  fun?  Tell  me,  Clarence! 
You  don '  t  say  anything !  Tell  me  —  was  n '  t 
it  real  fun?" 

This  was  all  so  like  her  old,  childlike, 
charming,  irresponsible  self,  that  Clarence, 
troubled  and  bewildered  as  he  was,  took  her 
hands  and  drew  her  like  a  child  towards 
him. 

"Of  course,"  she  went  on,  yet  stopping 
to  smell  a  rosebud  in  his  buttonhole,  "I 
have  a  perfect  right  to  come  to  my  own 
home,  goodness  knows!  and  if  I  bring  my 
own  aunt,  a  married  woman,  with  me,  — 
although,"  loftily,  "there  may  be  a  young 


188  SUSY: 

unmarried  gentleman  alone  there,  —  still  I 
fail  to  see  any  impropriety  in  it!  " 

He  was  still  holding  her ;  but  in  that  in 
stant  her,  manner  had  completely  changed 
again;  the  old  Susy  seemed  to  have  slipped 
away  and  evaded  him,  and  he  was  retaining 
only  a  conscious  actress  in  his  arms. 

"Release  me,  Mr.  Brant,  please,"  she 
said,  with  a  languid  affected  glance  behind 
her;  uwe  are  not  alone." 

Then,  as  the  rustling  of  a  skirt  sounded 
nearer  in  the  passage,  she  seemed  to  change 
back  to  her  old  self  once  more,  and  with  a 
lightning  flash  of  significance  whispered,  — 

"She  knows  everything! " 

To  add  to  Clarence's  confusion,  the  wo 
man  who  entered  cast  a  quick  glance  of 
playful  meaning  on  the  separating  youthful 
pair.  She  was  an  ineffective  blonde  with  a 
certain  beauty  that  seemed  to  be  gradually 
succumbing  to  the  ravages  of  paint  and  pow 
der  rather  than  years;  her  dress  appeared 
to  have  suffered  from  an  equally  unwise 
excess  of  ornamentation  and  trimming,  and 
she  gave  the  general  impression  of  having 
been  intended  for  exhibition  in  almost  any 
other  light  than  the  one  in  which  she  hap 
pened  to  be.  There  were  two  or  three  mud- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  189 

stains  on  the  laces  of  her  sleeve  and  under 
skirt  that  were  obtrusively  incongruous. 
Her  voice,  which  had,  however,  a  ring  of 
honest  intention  in  it,  was  somewhat  over 
strained,  and  evidently  had  not  yet  adjusted 
itself  to  the  low-ceilinged,  conventual-like 
building. 

"There,  children,  don't  mind  me!  I 
know  I  'm  not  on  in  this  scene,  but  I  got 
nervous  waiting  there,  in  what  you  call  the 
'sallon,'  with  only  those  Greaser  servants 
staring  round  me  in  a  circle,  like  a  regular 
chorus.  My!  but  it 's  anteek  here  —  regu 
lar  anteek  —  Spanish. "  Then,  with  a  glance 
at  Clarence,  "So  this  is  Clarence  Brant, 
—  your  Clarence?  Interduce  me,  Susy." 

In  his  confusion  of  indignation,  pain,  and 
even  a  certain  conception  of  the  grim  ludi- 
crousness  of  the  situation,  Clarence  grasped 
despairingly  at  the  single  sentence  of  Susy's. 
"In  my  own  home."  Surely,  at  least,  it 
was  her  own  home,  and  as  he  was  only  the 
business  agent  of  her  adopted  mother,  he 
had  no  right  to  dictate  to  her  under  what 
circumstances  she  should  return  to  it,  or 
whom  she  should  introduce  there.  In  her 
independence  and  caprice  Susy  might  easily 
have  gone  elsewhere  with  this  astounding 


190  SUSY: 

relative,  and  would  Mrs.  Peyton  like  it 
better?  Clinging  to  this  idea,  his  instinct 
of  hospitality  asserted  itself.  He  welcomed 
Mrs.  McClosky  with  nervous  effusion :  — 

"I  am  only  Mrs.  Peyton's  major  domo- 
here,  but  any  guest  of  her  daughter's  is 
welcome." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  McClosky,  with  osten 
tatious  archness,  "I  reckon  Susy  and  I  un 
derstand  your  position  here,  and  you  've  got 
a  good  berth  of  it.  But  we  won't  trouble 
you  much  on  Mrs.  Peyton's  account,  will 
we,  Susy?  And  now  she  and  me  will  just 
take  a  look  around  the  shanty,  —  it  is  real 
old  Spanish  anteek,  ain't  it?  —  and  sorter 
take  stock  of  it,  and  you  young  folks  will 
have  to  tear  yourselves  apart  for  a  while, 
and  play  propriety  before  me.  You  've  got 
to  be  on  your  good  behavior  while  I  'm  here, 
I  can  tell  you!  I  'm  a  heavy  old  'doo-anna.' 
Ain't  I,  Susy?  School-ma'ms  and  mother 
superiors  ain't  in  the  game  with  me  for  dis 
cipline." 

She  threw  her  arms  around  the  young 
girl's  waist  and  drew  her  towards  her  affec 
tionately,  an  action  that  slightly  precipitated 
some  powder  upon  the  black  dress  of  her 
niece.  Susy  glanced  mischievously  at  Clar- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  191 

ence,  but  withdrew  her  eyes  presently  to  let 
them  rest  with  unmistakable  appreciation 
and  admiration  on  her  relative.  A  pang 
shot  through  Clarence's  breast.  He  had 
never  seen  her  look  in  that  way  at  Mrs. 
Peyton.  Yet  here  was  this  stranger,  pro 
vincial,  overdressed,  and  extravagant,  whose 
vulgarity  was  only  made  tolerable  through 
her  good  humor,  who  had  awakened  that 
interest  which  the  refined  Mrs.  Peyton  had 
never  yet  been  able  to  touch.  As  Mrs. 
McClosky  swept  out  of  the  room  with  Susy 
he  turned  away  with  a  sinking  heart. 

Yet  it  was  necessary  that  the  Spanish 
house  servants  should  not  suspect  this  trea 
son  to  their  mistress,  and  Clarence  stopped 
their  childish  curiosity  about  the  stranger 
with  a  careless  and  easy  acceptance  of  Susy's 
sudden  visit  in  the  light  of  an  ordinary  oc 
currence,  and  with  a  familiarity  towards 
Mrs.  McClosky  which  became  the  more  dis 
tasteful  to  him  in  proportion  as  he  saw  that 
it  was  evidently  agreeable  to  her.  But, 
easily  responsive,  she  became  speedily  con 
fidential.  Without  a  single  question  from 
himself,  or  a  contributing  remark  from  Susy, 
in  half  an  hour  she  had  told  him  her  whole 
history.  How,  as  Jane  Silsbee,  an  elder 


192  SUSY: 

sister  of  Susy's  mother,  she  had  early  eloped 
from  the  paternal  home  in  Kansas  with 
McClosky,  a  strolling  actor.  How  she  had 
married  him  and  gone  on  the  stage  under 
his  stage  name,  effectively  preventing  any 
recognition  by  her  family.  How,  coming  to 
California,  where  her  husband  had  become 
manager  of  the  theatre  at  Sacramento,  she 
was  indignant  to  find  that  her  only  surviv 
ing  relation,  a  sister-in-law,  living  in  the 
same  place,  had  for  a  money  consideration 
given  up  all  claim  to  the  orphaned  Susy, 
and  how  she  had  resolved  to  find  out  "  if  the 
poor  child  was  happy."  How  she  succeeded 
in  finding  out  that  she  was  not  happy.  How 
she  wrote  to  her,  and  even  met  her  secretly 
at  San  Francisco  and  Oakland,  and  how  she 
had  undertaken  this  journey  partly  for  "a* 
lark,"  and  partly  to  see  Clarence  and  the 
property.  There  was  no  doubt  of  the 
speaker's  sincerity;  with  this  outrageous 
candor  there  was  an  equal  obliviousness  of 
any  indelicacy  in  her  conduct  towards  Mrs. 
Peyton  that  seemed  hopeless.  Yet  he  must 
talk  plainly  to  her ;  he  must  say  to  her  what 
he  could  not  say  to  Susy;  upon  for  Mrs. 
Peyton's  happiness  —  he  believed  he  was 
thinking  of  Susy's  also  —  depended.  He 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  193 

must  take  the  first  opportunity  of  speaking 
to  her  alone. 

That  opportunity  .came  sooner  than  he 
had  expected.  After  dinner,  Mrs.  Mc- 
Closky  turned  to  Susy,  and  playfully  telling 
her  that  she  had  "to  talk  business"  with 
Mr.  Brant,  bade  her  go  to  the  salon  and 
await  her.  When  the  young  girl  left  the 
room,  she  looked  at  Clarence,  and,  with 
that  assumption  of  curtness  with  which 
coarse  but  kindly  natures  believe  they  over 
come  the  difficulty  of  delicate  subjects,  said 
abruptly :  — 

"Well,  young  man,  now  what's  all  this 
between  you  and  Susy?  I  'm  looking  after 
her  interests  —  same  as  if  she  was  my  own 
girl.  If  you  've  got  anything  to  say,  now  's 
your  time.  And  don't  you  shilly-shally  too 
long  over  it,  either,  for  you  might  as  well 
know  that  a  girl  like  that  can  have  her  pick 
and  choice,  and  be  beholden  to  no  one ;  and 
when  she  don't  care  to  choose,  there  's  me 
and  my  husband  ready  to  do  for  her  all 
the  same.  We  mightn't  be  able  to  do  the 
anteek  Spanish  Squire,  but  we  've  got  our 
own  line  of  business,  and  it 's  a  comfortable 
one." 

To  have  this  said  to  him  under  the  roof 


194  SUSY: 

of  Mrs.  Peyton,  from  whom,  in  his  sensi 
tiveness,  he  had  thus  far  jealously  guarded 
his  own  secret,  was  even  more  than  Clar 
ence's  gentleness  could  stand,  and  fixed  his 
wavering  resolution. 

"I  don't  think  we  quite  understand  each 
other,  Mrs.  McClosky,"  he  said  coldly,  but 
with  glittering  eyes.  "I  have  certainly 
something  to  say  to  you ;  if  it  is  not  on  a 
subject  as  pleasant  as  the  one  you  propose, 
it  is,  nevertheless,  one  that  I  think  you  and 
I  are  more  competent  to  discuss  together." 

Then,  with  quiet  but  unrelenting  direct 
ness,  he  pointed  out  to  her  that  Susy  was  a 
legally  adopted  daughter  of  Mrs.  Peyton, 
and,  as  a  minor,  utterly  under  her  control; 
that  Mrs.  Peyton  had  no  knowledge  of  any 
opposing  relatives;  and  that  Susy  had  not 
only  concealed  the  fact  from  her,  but  that 
he  was  satisfied  that  Mrs.  Peyton  did  not 
even  know  of  Susy's  discontent  and  alien 
ation;  that  she  had  tenderly  and  carefully 
brought  up  the  helpless  orphan  as  her  own 
child,  and  even  if  she  had  not  gained  her 
affection  was  at  least  entitled  to  her  obedi 
ence  and  respect;  that  while  Susy*s  girlish 
caprice  and  inexperience  excused  her  con 
duct,  Mrs.  Peyton  and  her  friends  would 


A  STORY  OF   THE  PLAINS.  195 

have  a  right  to  expect  more  consideration 
from  a  person  of  Mrs.  McClosky's  maturer 
judgment.  That  for  these  reasons,  and  as 
the  friend  of  Mrs.  Peyton,  whom  he  could 
alone  recognize  as  Susy's  guardian  and  the 
arbiter  of  her  affections,  he  must  decline  to 
discuss  the  young  girl  with  any  reference  to 
himself  or  his  own  intentions. 

An  unmistakable  flush  asserted  itself 
under  the  lady's  powder. 

"Suit  yourself,  young  man,  suit  yourself," 
she  said,  with  equally  direct  resentment  and 
antagonism;  "only  mebbee  you'll  let  me 
tell  you  that  Jim  McClosky  ain't  no  fool, 
and  mebbee  knows  what  lawyers  think  of 
an  arrangement  with  a  sister-in-law  that 
leaves  a  real  sister  out !  Mebbee  that 's  a 
'Sister's  title '  you  ain't  thought  of,  Mr. 
Brant !  And  mebbee  you  '11  find  out  that 
your  chance  o'  gettin'  Mrs.  Peyton's  con 
sent  ain't  as  safe  to  gamble  on  as  you 
reckon  it  is.  And  mebbee,  what 's  more 
to  the  purpose,  if  you  did  get  it,  it  might 
not  be  just  the  trump  card  to  fetch  Susy 
with!  And  to  wind  up,  Mr.  Brant,  when 
you  do  have  to  come  down  to  the  bed-rock 
and  me  and  Jim  McClosky,  you  may  find 
out  that  him  and  me  have  discovered  a  bet- 


196  SUSY: 

ter  match  for  Susy  than  the  son  of  old  Ham 
Brant,  who  is  trying  to  play  the  Spanish 
grandee  off  his  father's  money  on  a  couple 
of  women.  And  we  mayn't  have  to  go  far 
to  do  it  —  or  to  get  the  real  thing,  Mr. 
Brant!" 

Too  heartsick  and  disgusted  to  even 
notice  the  slur  upon  himself  or  the  import 
of  her  last  words,  Clarence  only  rose  and 
bowed  as  she  jumped  up  from  the  table. 
But  as  she  reached  the  door  he  said,  half 
appealingly :  — 

"Whatever  are  your  other  intentions, 
Mrs.  McClosky,  as  we  are  both  Susy's 
guests,  I  beg  you  will  say  nothing  of  this 
to  her  while  we  are  here,  and  particularly 
that  you  will  not  allow  her  to  think  for  a 
moment  that  I  have  discussed  my  relations 
to  her  with  anybody." 

She  flung  herself  out  of  the  door  without 
a  reply ;  but  on  entering  the  dark  low-ceil- 
inged  drawing-room  she  was  surprised  to 
find  that  Susy  was  not  there.  She  was  con 
sequently  obliged  to  return  to,  the  veranda, 
where  Clarence  had  withdrawn,  and  to  some 
what  ostentatiously  demand  of  the  servants 
that  Susy  should  be  sent  to  her  room  at 
once.  But  the  young  girl  was  not  in  her 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  197 

own  room,  and  was  apparently  nowhere  to 
be  found.  Clarence,  who  had  now  fully 
determined  as  a  last  resource  to  make  a  di 
rect  appeal  to  Susy  herself,  listened  to  this 
fruitless  search  with  some  concern.  She 
could  not  have  gone  out  in  the  rain,  which 
was  again  falling.  She  might  be  hiding 
somewhere  to  avoid  a  recurrence  of  the 
scene  she  had  perhaps  partly  overheard. 
He  turned  into  the  corridor  that  led  to  Mrs. 
Peyton's  boudoir.  As  he  knew  that  it  was 
locked,  he  was  surprised  to  see  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  hanging  lamp  that  a  duplicate 
key  to  the  one  in  his  desk  was  in  the  lock. 
It  must  be  Susy's,  and  the  young  girl  had 
probably  taken  refuge  there.  He  knocked 
gently.  There  was  a  rustle  in  the  room 
and  the  sound  of  a  chair  being  moved,  but 
no  reply.  Impelled  by  a  sudden  instinct 
he  opened  the  door,  and  was  met  by  a  cool 
current  of  air  from  some  open  window.  At 
the  same  moment  the  figure  of  Susy  ap 
proached  him  from  the  semi-darkness  of  the 
interior. 

"I  did  not  know  you  were  here,"  said 
Clarence,  much  relieved,  he  knew  not  why, 
"but  I  am  glad,  for  I  wanted  to  speak  with 
you  alone  for  a  few  moments." 


198  SUSY: 

She  did  not  reply,  but  he  drew  a  match 
from  his  pocket  and  lit  the  two  candles 
which  he  knew  stood  on  the  table.  The 
wick  of  one  was  still  warm,  as  if  it  had  been 
recently  extinguished.  As  the  light  slowly 
radiated,  he  could  see  that  she  was  regard 
ing  him  with  an  air  of  affected  unconcern, 
but  a  somewhat  heightened  color.  It  was 
like  her,  and  not  inconsistent  with  his  idea 
that  she  had  come  there  to  avoid  an  after 
scene  with  Mrs.  McClosky  or  himself,  or 
perhaps  both.  The  room  was  not  disar 
ranged  in  any  way.  The  window  that  was 
opened  was  the  casement  of  the  deep  em 
brasured  one  in  the  rear  wall,  and  the  light 
curtain  before  it  still  swayed  occasionally  in 
the  night  wind. 

"I  'm  afraid  I  had  a  row  with  your  aunt, 
Susy,"  he  began  lightly,  in  his  old  familiar 
way;  "but  I  had  to  tell  her  I  didn't  think 
her  conduct  to  Mrs.  Peyton  was  exactly  the 
square  thing  towards  one  who  had  been  as 
devoted  to  you  as  she  has  been." 

"Oh,  for  goodness'  sake,  don't  go  over  all 
that  again,"  said  Susy  impatiently.  "I  've 
had  enough  of  it." 

Clarence  flushed,  but  recovered  himself. 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  199 

"Then  you  overheard  what  I  said,  and 
know  what  I  think,"  he  said  calmly. 

"I  knew  it  before,"  said  the  young-  girl, 
with  a  slight  supercilious  toss  of  the  head, 
and  yet  a  certain  abstraction  of  manner  as 
she  went  to  the  window  and  closed  it.  "  Any 
body  could  see  it!  I  know  you  always 
wanted  me  to  stay  here  with  Mrs.  Peyton, 
and  be  coddled  and  monitored  and  cate 
chised  and  shut  up  away  from  any  one,  un 
til  you  had  been  coddled  and  monitored  and 
catechised  by  somebody  else  sufficiently  to 
suit  her  ideas  of  your  being  a  fit  husband 
for  me.  I  told  aunty  it  was  no  use  our  com 
ing  here  to  —  to  "  — 

"To  do  what? "asked  Clarence. 

"To  put  some  spirit  into  you,"  said  the 
young  girl,  turning  upon  him  sharply;  "to 
keep  you  from  being  tied  to  that  woman's 
apron-strings.  To  keep  her  from  making 
a  slave  of  you  as  she  would  of  me.  But  it 
is  of  no  use.  Mary  Rogers  was  right  when 
she  said  you  had  no  wish  to  please  anybody 
but  Mrs.  Peyton,  and  no  eyes  for  anybody 
but  her.  And  if  it  had  n't  been  too  ridicu 
lous,  considering  her  age  and  yours,  she  'd 
say  you  were  dead  in  love  with  her." 

For  an  instant  Clarence   felt  the  blood 


200  SUSY: 

rush  to  his  face  and  then  sink  away,  leaving 
him  pale  and  cold.  The  room,  which  had 
seemed  to  whirl  around  him,  and  then  fade 
away,  returned  with  appalling  distinctness, 
—  the  distinctness  of  memory,  —  and  a  vision 
of  the  first  day  that  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Pey 
ton  sitting  there,  as  he  seemed  to  see  her 
now.  For  the  first  time  there  flashed  upon 
him  the  conviction  that  the  young  girl  had 
spoken  the  truth,  and  had  brusquely  brushed 
the  veil  from  his  foolish  eyes.  He  was  in 
love  with  Mrs.  Peyton !  That  was  what  his 
doubts  and  hesitation  regarding  Susy  meant. 
That  alone  was  the  source,  secret,  and  limit 
of  his  vague  ambition. 

But  with  the  conviction  came  a  singular 
calm.  In  the  last  few  moments  he  seemed 
to  have  grown  older,  to  have  loosed  the 
bonds  of.  old  companionship  with  Susy,  and 
the  later  impression  she  had  given  him  of 
her  mature  knowledge,  and  moved  on  far 
beyond  her  years  and  experience.  And  it 
was  with  an  authority  that  was  half  paternal, 
and  in  a  voice  he  himself  scarcely  recog 
nized,  that  he  said :  — • 

"If  I  did  not  know  you  were  prejudiced 
by  a  foolish  and  indiscreet  woman,  I  should 
believe  that  you  were  trying  to  insult  me  as 


A   STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  201 

you  have  your  adopted  mother,  and  would 
save  you  the  pain  of  doing  both  in  her  house 
by  leaving  it  now  and  forever.  But  because 
I  believe  you  are  controlled  against  your  best 
instinct  by  that  woman,  I  shall  remain  here 
with  you  to  frustrate  her  as  best  I  can,  or 
until  I  am  able  to  lay  everything  before 
Mrs.  Peyton  except  the  foolish  speech  you 
have  just  made." 

The  young  girl  laughed.  "Why  not  that 
one  too,  while  you  're  about  it  ?  See  what 
she  '11  say." 

"I  shall  tell  her,"  continued  Clarence 
calmly,  "only  what  you  yourself  have  made 
it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  her  to  save  you 
from  folly  and  disgrace,  and  only  enough 
to  spare  her  the  mortification  of  hearing  it 
first  from  her  own  servants." 

"Hearing  what  from  her  own  servants? 
What  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you?"  de 
manded  the  young  girl  sharply. 

She  was  quite  real  in  her  anxiety  now, 
although  her  attitude  of  virtuous  indigna 
tion  struck  him  as  being  like  all  her  emo 
tional  expression,  namely,  acting. 

"I  mean  that  the  servants  know  of  your 
correspondence  with  Mrs.  McClosky,  and 
that  she  claims  to  be  your  aunt,"  returned 


202  SUSY: 

Clarence.  "They  know  that  you  confided 
to  Pepita.  They  believe  that  either  Mrs. 
McClosky  or  you  have  seen  "  — 

He  had  stopped  suddenly.  He  was  about 
to  say  that  the  servants  (particularly  Incar- 
nacion)  knew  that  Pedro  had  boasted  of 
having  met  Susy,  when,  for  the  first  time, 
the  tremendous  significance  of  what  he  had 
hitherto  considered  as  merely  an  idle  false 
hood  flashed  upon  him. 

"Seen  whom?"  repeated  Susy  in  a  higher 
voice,  impatiently  stamping  her  foot. 

Clarence  looked  at  her,  and  in  her  excited, 
questioning  face  saw  a  confirmation  of  his 
still  half -formed  suspicions.  In  his  own 
abrupt  pause  and  knitted  eyebrows  she 
must  have  read  his  thoughts  also.  Their 
eyes  met.  Her  violet  pupils  dilated,  trem 
bled,  and  then  quickly  shifted  as  she  sud 
denly  stiffened  into  an  attitude  of  scornful 
indifference,  almost  grotesque  in  its  unreal 
ity.  His  eyes  slowly  turned  to  the  window, 
the  door,  the  candles  on  the  table  and  the 
chair  before  it,  and  then  came  back  to  her 
face  again.  Then  he  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"I  give  no  heed  to  the  idle  gossip  of 
servants,  Susy,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  have 
no  belief  that  you  have  ever  contemplated 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  203 

anything  worse  than  an  act  of  girlish  folly, 
or  the  gratification  of  a  passing  caprice. 
Neither  do  I  want  to  appeal  to  you  or 
frighten  you,  but  I  must  tell  you  now,  that 
I  know  certain  facts  that  might  make  such 
a  simple  act  of  folly  monstrous,  inconceiva 
ble  in  you,  and  almost  accessory  to  a  crime ! 
I  can  tell  you  no  more.  But  so  satisfied 
am  I  of  such  a  possibility,  that  I  shall  not 
scruple  to  take  any  means  —  the  strongest 
—  to  prevent  even  the  remotest  chance  of  it. 
Your  aunt  has  been  looking  for  you;  you 
had  better  go  to  her  now.  I  will  close  the 
room  and  lock  the  door.  Meantime,  I 
should  advise  you  not  to  sit  so  near  an  open 
window  with  a  candle  at  night  in  this  local 
ity.  Even  if  it  might  not  be  dangerous  for 
you,  it  might  be  fatal  to  the  foolish  crea 
tures  it  might  attract." 

He  took  the  key  from  the  door  as  he  held 
it  open  for  her  to  pass  out.  She  uttered  a 
shrill  little  laugh,  like  a  nervous,  mischiev 
ous  child,  and,  slipping  out  of  her  previous 
artificial  attitude  as  if  it  had  been  a  mantle, 
ran  out  of  the  room. 


204  SUSY: 


CHAPTER  X. 

As  Susy's  footsteps  died  away,  Clarence 
closed  the  door,  walked  to  the  window,  and 
examined  it  closely.  The  bars  had  been 
restored  since  he  had  wrenched  them  off  to 
give  ingress  to  the  family  on  the  day  of 
recapture.  He  glanced  around  the  room; 
nothing  seemed  to  have  been  disturbed. 
Nevertheless  he  was  uneasy.  The  suspi 
cions  of  a  frank,  trustful  nature  when  once 
aroused  are  apt  to  be  more  general  and  far- 
reaching  than  the  specific  distrusts  of  the 
disingenuous,  for  they  imply  the  overthrow 
of  a  whole  principle  and  not  a  mere  detail. 
Clarence's  conviction  that  Susy  had  seen 
Pedro  recently  since  his  dismissal  led  him 
into  the  wildest  surmises  of  her  motives.  It 
was  possible  that  without  her  having  reason 
to  suspect  Pedro's  greater  crime,  he  might 
have  confided  to  her  his  intention  of  reclaim 
ing  the  property  and  installing  he*  as  the 
mistress  and  chatelaine  of  the  rancho.  The 
idea  was  one  that  might  have  appealed  to 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  205 

Susy's  theatrical  imagination.  He  recalled 
Mrs.  McClosky's  sneer  at  his  own  preten 
sions  and  her  vague  threats  of  a  rival  of 
more  lineal  descent.  The  possible  infidelity 
of  Susy  to  himself  touched  him  lightly 
when  the  first  surprise  was  over ;  indeed,  it 
scarcely  could  be  called  infidelity,  if  she 
knew  and  believed  Mary  Rogers 's  discovery; 
and  the  conviction  that  he  and  she  had 
really  never  loved  each  other  now  enabled 
him,  as  he  believed,  to  look  at  her  conduct 
dispassionately.  Yet  it  was  her  treachery 
to  Mrs.  Peyton  and  not  to  himself  that 
impressed  him  most,  and  perhaps  made  him 
equally  unjust,  through  his  affections. 

He  extinguished  the  candles,  partly  from 
some  vague  precautions  he  could  not  explain, 
and  partly  to  think  over  his  fears  in  the 
abstraction  and  obscurity  of  the  semi-dark 
ness.  The  higher  windows  suffused  a  faint 
light  on  the  ceiling,  and,  assisted  by  the 
dark  lantern-like  glow  cast  on  the  opposite 
wall  by  the  tunnel  of  the  embrasured  win 
dow,  the  familiar  outlines  of  the  room  and 
its  furniture  came  back  to  him.  Somewhat 
in  this  fashion  also,  in  the  obscurity  and 
quiet,  came  back  to  him  the  events  he  had 
overlooked  and  forgotten.  He  recalled  now 


206  SUSY: 

some  gossip  of  the  servants,  and  hints 
dropped  by  Susy  of  a  violent  quarrel  be 
tween  Peyton  and  Pedro,  which  resulted  in 
Pedro's  dismissal,  but  which  now  seemed 
clearly  attributable  to  some  graver  cause 
than  inattention  and  insolence.  He  recalled 
Mary  Rogers 's  playful  pleasantries  with  Susy 
about  Pedro,  and  Susy's  mysterious  air, 
which  he  had  hitherto  regarded  only  as  part 
of  her  exaggeration.  He  remembered  Mrs. 
Peyton's  unwarrantable  uneasiness  about 
Susy,  which  he  had  either  overlooked  or 
referred  entirely  to  himself ;  she  must  have 
suspected  something.  To  his  quickened 
imagination,  in  this  ruin  of  his  faith  and 
trust,  he  believed  that  Hooker's  defection 
was  either  part  of  the  conspiracy,  or  that  he 
had  run  away  to  avoid  being  implicated  with 
Susy  in  its  discovery.  This,  too,  was  the 
significance  of  Gilroy's  parting  warning. 
He  and  Mrs.  Peyton  alone  had  been  blind 
and  confiding  in  the  midst  of  this  treachery, 
and  even  he  had  been  blind  to  his  own  real 
affections. 

The  wind  had  risen  again,  and  the  faint 
light  on  the  opposite  wall  grew  tremulous 
and  shifting  with  the  movement  of  the  foli 
age  without.  But  presently  the  glow  be- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  207 

came  quite  obliterated,  as  if  by  the  inter 
vention  of  some  opaque  body  outside  the 
window.  He  rose  hurriedly  and  went  to 
the  casement.  But  at  the  same  moment  he 
fancied  he  heard  the  jamming  of  a  door  or 
window  in  quite  another  direction,  and  his 
examination  of  the  casement  before  him 
showed  him  only  the  silver  light  of  the 
thinly  clouded  sky  falling  uninterruptedly 
through  the  bars  and  foliage  on  the  interior 
of  the  whitewashed  embrasure.  Then  a 
conception  of  his  mistake  flashed  across  him. 
The  line  of  the  casa  was  long,  straggling, 
and  exposed  elsewhere ;  why  should  the  at 
tempt  to  enter  or  communicate  with  any  one 
within  be  confined  only  to  this  single  point? 
And  why  not  satisfy  himself  at  once  if  any 
trespassers  were  lounging  around  the  walls, 
and  then  confront  them  boldly  in  the  open? 
Their  discovery  and  identification  was  as 
important  as  the  defeat  of  their  intentions. 

He  relit  the  candle,  and,  placing  it  on  a 
small  table  by  the  wall  beyond  the  visual 
range  of  the  window,  rearranged  the  curtain 
so  that,  while  it  permitted  the  light  to  pass 
out,  it  left  the  room  in  shadow.  He  then 
opened  the  door  softly,  locked  it  behind  him, 
and  passed  noiselessly  into  the  hall.  Susy's 


208  SUSY: 

and  Mrs.  McClosky's  rooms  were  at  the 
further  end  of  the  passage,  but  between  them 
and  the  boudoir  was  the  open  patio,  and  the 
low  murmur  of  the  voices  of  servants,  who 
still  lingered  until  he  should  dismiss  them 
for  the  night.  Turning  back,  he  moved 
silently  down  the  passage,  until  he  reached 
the  narrow  arched  door  to  the  garden.  This 
he  unlocked  and  opened  with  the  same 
stealthy  caution.  The  rain  had  recom 
menced.  Not  daring  to  risk  a  return  to  his 
room,  he  took  from  a  peg  in  the  recess  an 
old  waterproof  cloak  and  "sou'wester"  of 
Peyton's,  which  still  hung  there,  and  passed 
out  into  the  night,  locking  the  door  behind 
him.  To  keep  the  knowledge  of  his  secret 
patrol  from  the  stablemen,  he  did  not  at 
tempt  to  take  out  his  own  horse,  but  trusted 
to  find  some  vacquero's  mustang  in  the  cor 
ral.  By  good  luck  an  old  "Blue  Grass" 
hack  of  Peyton's,  nearest  the  stockade  as 
he  entered,  allowed  itself  to  be  quickly 
caught.  Using  its  rope  headstall  for  a 
bridle,  Clarence  vaulted  on  its  bare  back, 
and  paced  cautiously  out  into  the  road. 
Here  he  kept  the  curve  of  the  longtime  of 
stockade  until  he  reached  the  outlying  field 
where,  half  hidden  in  the  withered,  sapless, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  209 

but  still  standing  stalks  of  grain,  he  slowly 
began  a  circuit  of  the  casa. 

The  misty  gray  dome  above  him,  which 
an  invisible  moon  seemed  to  have  quicksil 
vered  over,  alternately  lightened  and  dark 
ened  with  passing  gusts  of  fine  rain.  Nev 
ertheless  he  could  see  the  outline  of  the 
broad  quadrangle  of  the  house  quite  dis 
tinctly,  except  on  the  west  side,  where  a 
fringe  of  writhing  willows  beat  the  brown 
adobe  walls  with  their  imploring  arms  at 
every  gust.  Elsewhere  nothing  moved ;  the 
view  was  uninterrupted  to  where  the  shining, 
watery  sky  met  the  equally  shining,  watery 
plain.  He  had  already  made  a  half  circuit 
of  the  house,  and  was  still  noiselessly  pick 
ing  his  way  along  the  furrows,  muffled  with 
soaked  and  broken  -  down  blades,  and  the 
velvety  upspringing  of  the  "volunteer" 
growth,  when  suddenly,  not  fifty  yards  be 
fore  him,  without  sound  or  warning,  a  figure 
rode  out  of  the  grain  upon  the  open  cross 
road,  and  deliberately  halted  with  a  listless, 
abstracted,  waiting  air.  Clarence  instantly 
recognized  one  of  his  own  vacqueros,  an 
undersized  half-breed,  but  he  as  instantly 
divined  that  he  was  only  an  outpost  or  con 
federate,  stationed  to  give  the  alarm.  The 


210  8USY: 

same  precaution  had  prevented  each  hearing 
the  other,  and  the  lesser  height  of  the  vac- 
quero  had  rendered  him  indistinguishable 
as  he  preceded  Clarence  among  the  grain. 
As  the  young  man  made  no  doubt  that  the 
real  trespasser  was  nearer  the  casa,  along 
the  line  of  willows,  he  wheeled  to  intercept 
him  without  alarming  his  sentry.  Unfortu 
nately,  his  horse  answered  the  rope  bridle 
clumsily,  and  splashed  in  striking  out.  The 
watcher  quickly  raised  his  head,  and  Clar 
ence  knew  that  his  only  chance  was  now  to 
suppress  him.  Determined  to  do  this  at 
any  hazard,  with  a  threatening  gesture  he 
charged  boldly  down  upon  him. 

But  he  had  not  crossed  half  the  distance 
between  them  when  the  man  uttered  an  ap 
palling  cry,  so  wild  and  despairing  that  it 
seemed  to  chill  even  the  hot  blood  in  Clar 
ence's  veins,  and  dashed  frenziedly  down 
the  cross-road  into  the  interminable  plain. 
Before  Clarence  could  determine  if  that  cry 
was  a  signal  or  an  involuntary  outburst,  it 
was  followed  instantly  by  the  sound  of 
frightened  and  struggling  hoofs  clattering 
against  the  wall  of  the  casa,  and  a  swaying 
of  the  shrubbery  near  the  back  gate  of  the 
patio.  Here  was  his  real  quarry !  With- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  211 

out  hesitation  he  dug  his  heels  into  the 
flanks  of  his  horse  and  rode  furiously  to 
wards  it.  As  he  approached,  a  long  tremor 
seemed  to  pass  through  the  shrubbery,  with 
the  retreating  sound  of  horse  hoofs.  The 
unseen  trespasser  had  evidently  taken  the 
alarm  and  was  fleeing,  and  Clarence  dashed 
in  pursuit.  Following  the  sound,  for  the 
shrubbery  hid  the  fugitive  from  view,  he 
passed  the  last  wall  of  the  casa;  but  it  soon 
became  evident  that  the  unknown  had  the 
better  horse.  The  hoof -beats  grew  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  at  times  appeared  even  to 
cease,  until  his  own  approach  started  them 
again,  eventually  to  fade  away  in  the  dis 
tance.  In  vain  Clarence  dug  his  heels  into 
the  flanks  of  his  heavier  steed,  and^egretted  , 
his  own  mustang;  and  when  at  last  he 
reached  the  edge  of  the  thicket  he  had 
lost  both  sight  and  sound  of  the  fugitive. 
The  descent  to  the  lower  terrace  lay  before 
him  empty  and  desolate.  The  man  had  es 
caped  ! 

He  turned  slowly  back  with  baffled  anger 
and  vindictiveness.  However,  he  had  pre 
vented  something,  although  he  knew  not 
what.  The  principal  had  got  away,  but  he 
had  identified  his  confederate,  and  for  the 


212  SUSY: 

first  time  held  a  clue  to  his  mysterious  visi 
tant.  There  was  no  use  to  alarm  the  house 
hold,  which  did  not  seem  to  have  been  dis 
turbed.  The  trespassers  were  far  away  by 
this  time,  and  the  attempt  would  hardly  be 
repeated  that  night.  He  made  his  way 
quietly  back  to  the  corral,  let  loose  his  horse, 
and  regained  the  casa  unobserved.  He  un 
locked  the  arched  door  in  the  wall,  reentered 
the  darkened  passage,  stopped  a  moment  to 
open  the  door  of  the  boudoir,  glance  at  the 
closely  fastened  casement,  and  extinguish 
the  still  burning  candle,  and,  relocking  the 
door  securely,  made  his  way  to  his  own 
room. 

But  he  could  not  sleep.  The  whole  inci 
dent,  over  so  quickly,  had  nevertheless  im 
pressed  him  deeply,  and  yet  like  a  dream. 
The  strange  yell  of  the  vacquero  still  rang 
in  his  ears,  but  with  an  unearthly  and  super 
stitious  significance  that  was  even  more 
dreamlike  in  its  meaning.  He  awakened 
from  a  fitful  slumber  to  find  the  light  of 
morning  in  the  room,  and  Incarnacion  stand 
ing  by  his  bedside. 

The  yellow  face  of  the  steward  was*green- 
ish  with  terror,  and  his  lips  were  dry. 

"Get  up,    Senor   Clarencio;    get  up  at 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  213 

once,  my  master.  Strange  things  have  hap 
pened.  Mother  of  God  protect  us !  " 

Clarence  rolled  to  his  feet,  with  the  events 
of  the  past  night  struggling  back  upon  his 
consciousness. 

"What  mean  you,  Nascio?"  he  said, 
grasping  the  man's  arm,  which  was  still 
mechanically  making  the  sign  of  the  cross, 
as  he  muttered  incoherently.  "Speak,  I 
command  you ! " 

"It  is  Jose,  the  little  vacquero,  who  is 
even  now  at  the  padre's  house,  raving  as  a 
lunatic,  stricken  as  a  madman  with  terror ! 
He  has  seen  him,  —  the  dead  alive !  Save 
us!" 

"Are  you  mad  yourself,  Nascio?"  said 
Clarence.  "  Whom  has  he  seen  ?  " 

"  Whom  ?  God  help  us !  the  old  padron  — 
Senor  Peyton  himself !  He  rushed  towards 
him  here,  in  the  patio,  last  night  —  out  of 
the  air,  the  sky,  the  ground,  he  knew  not, 
—  his  own  self,  wrapped  in  his  old  storm 
cloak  and  hat,  and  riding  his  own  horse,  — 
erect,  terrible,  and  menacing,  with  an  awful 
hand  upholding  a  rope  —  so !  He  saw  him 
with  these  eyes,  as  I  see  you.  What  he  said 
to  him,  God  knows !  The  priest,  perhaps, 
for  he  has  made  confession!  " 


214  SUSY: 

In  a  flash  of  intelligence  Clarence  com 
prehended  all.  He  rose  grimly  and  began 
to  dress  himself. 

"Not  a  word  of  this  to  the  women,  — to 
anyone,  Nascio,  dost  thou  understand?"  he 
said  curtly.  "It  may  be  that  Jose  has  been 
partaking  too  freely  of  aguardiente,  —  it  is 
possible.  I  will  see  the  priest  myself.  But 
what  possesses  thee  ?  Collect  thyself,  good 
Nascio." 

But  the  man  was  still  trembling. 

"  It  is  not  all,  —  Mother  of  God  !  it  is  not 
all,  master!  "  he  stammered,  dropping  to  his 
knees  and  still  crossing  himself.  "This 
morning,  beside  the  corral,  they  find  the 
horse  of  Pedro  Yaldez  splashed  and  spat 
tered  on  saddle  and  bridle,  and  in  the 
stirrup,  —  dost  thou  hear  ?  the  stirrup,  — 
hanging,  the  torn-off  boot  of  Valdez !  Ah, 
God !  The  same  as  his  !  Now  do  you  under 
stand?  It  is  his  vengeance.  No!  Jesu 
forgive  me !  it  is  the  vengeance  of  God !  " 

Clarence  was  staggered. 

"And  you  have  not  found  Valdez?  You 
have  looked  for  him?"  he  said,  hurriedly 
throwing  on  his  clothes. 

"Everywhere,  — all  over  the  plain.  The 
whole  rancho  has  been  out  since  sunrise,  — 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  215 

here  and  there  and  everywhere.  And  there 
is  nothing!  Of  course  not.  What  would 
you?  "  He  pointed  solemnly  to  the  ground. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Clarence,  buttoning 
his  coat  and  seizing  his  hat.  "Follow  me." 

He  ran  down  the  passage,  followed  by 
Incarnacion,  through  the  excited,  gesticulat 
ing  crowd  of  servants  in  the  patio,  and  out 
of  the  back  gate.  He  turned  first  along  the 
wall  of  the  casa  towards  the  barred  window 
of  the  boudoir.  Then  a  cry  came  from  In 
carnacion. 

They  ran  quickly  forward.  Hanging 
from  the  grating  of  the  window,  like  a  mass 
of  limp  and  saturated  clothes,  was  the  body 
of  Pedro  Valdez,  with  one  unbooted  foot 
dangling  within  an  inch  of  the  ground.  His 
head  was  passed  inside  the  grating  and  fixed 
as  at  that  moment  when  the  first  spring  of 
the  frightened  horse  had  broken  his  neck 
between  the  bars  as  in  a  garrote,  and  the 
second  plunge  of  the  terrified  animal  had 
carried  off  his  boot  in  the  caught  stirrup 
when  it  escaped. 


216  SUSY: 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  winter  rains  were  over  and  gone, 
and  the  whole  long  line  of  Californian  coast 
was  dashed  with  color.  There  were  miles 
of  yellow  and  red  poppies,  leagues  of  lu 
pines  that  painted  the  gently  rounded  hills 
with  soft  primary  hues,  and  long  continuous 
slopes,  like  low  mountain  systems,  of  daisies 
and  dandelions.  At  Sacramento  it  was 
already  summer;  the  yellow  river  was  flash 
ing  and  intolerable;  the  tule  and  marsh 
grasses  were  lush  and  long;  the  bloom  of 
cottonwood  and  sycamore  whitened  the  out 
skirts  of  the  city,  and  as  Cyrus  Hopkins 
and  his  daughter  Phoebe  looked  from  the 
veranda  of  the  Placer  Hotel,  accustomed  as 
they  were  to  the  cool  trade  winds  of  the 
coast  valleys,  they  felt  homesick  from  the 
memory  of  eastern  heats. 

Later,  when  they  were  surveying  the  long 
dinner  tables  at  the  table  d'hote  witjj  some 
thing  of  the  uncomfortable  and  shamefaced 
loneliness  of  the  provincial,  Phoebe  uttered 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  217 

a  slight  cry  and  clutched  her  father's  arm. 
Mr.  Hopkins  stayed  the  play  of  his  squared 
elbows  and  glanced  inquiringly  at  his  daugh 
ter's  face.  There  was  a  pretty  animation  in 
it,  as  she  pointed  to  a  figure  that  had  just 
entered.  It  was  that  of  a  young  man  at 
tired  in  the  extravagance  rather  than  the 
taste  of  the  prevailing  fashion,  which  did 
not,  however,  in  the  least  conceal  a  decided 
rusticity  of  limb  and  movement.  A  long 
mustache,  which  looked  unkempt,  even  in 
its  pomatumed  stiffness,  and  lank,  dark 
hair  that  had  bent  but  never  curled  under 
the  barber's  iron,  made  him  notable  even  in 
that  heterogeneous  assembly. 

"That 's  he,"  whispered  Phoebe. 

"Who?"  said  her  father. 

Alas  for  the  inconsistencies  of  love !  The 
blush  came  with  the  name  and  not  the  vis 
ion. 

"Mr.  Hooker,"  she  stammered. 

It  was,  indeed,  Jim  Hooker.  But  the 
role  of  his  exaggeration  was  no  longer  the 
same ;  the  remorseful  gloom  in  which  he  had 
been  habitually  steeped  had  changed  into  a 
fatigued,  yet  haughty,  fastidiousness  more 
in  keeping  with  his  fashionable  garments. 
He  was  more  peaceful,  yet  not  entirely 


218  SUSY: 

placable,  and,  as  lie  sat  down  at  a  side  table 
and  pulled  down  his  striped  cuffs  with  his 
clasped  fingers,  he  cast  a  glance  of  critical 
disapproval  on  the  general  company.  Nev 
ertheless,  he  seemed  to  be  furtively  watch 
ful  of  his  effect  upon  them,  and  as  one  or 
two  whispered  and  looked  towards  him,  his 
consciousness  became  darkly  manifest. 

All  of  which  might  have  intimidated  the 
gentle  Phoebe,  but  did  not  discompose  her 
father.  He  rose,  and  crossing  over  to 
Hooker's  table,  clapped  him  heartily  on  the 
back. 

"How  do,  Hooker?  I  didn't  recognize 
you  in  them  fine  clothes,  but  Phoebe  guessed 
as  how  it  was  you." 

Flushed,  disconcerted,  irritated,  but  al 
ways  in  wholesome  awe  of  Mr.  Hopkins, 
Jim  returned  his  greeting  awkwardly  and 
half  hysterically.  How  he  would  have  re 
ceived  the  more  timid  Phoebe  is  another 
question.  But  Mr.  Hopkins,  without  appar 
ently  noticing  these  symptoms,  went  on :  — 

"We  're  only  just  down,  Phoebe  and  me, 
and  as  I  guess  we  '11  want  to  talk  over  old 
times,  we  '11  come  alongside  o'  yotr  Hold 
on,  and  I  '11  fetch  her." 

The    interval   gave  the    unhappy  Jim  a 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  219 

chance  to  recover  himself,  to  regain  his  van 
ished  cuffs,  display  his  heavy  watch-chain, 
curl  his  mustache,  and  otherwise  reassume 
his  air  of  blase  fastidiousness.  But  the  1 
transfer  made,  Phoebe,  after  shaking  hands, 
became  speechless  under  these  perfections. 
Not  so  her  father. 

"If  there's  anything  in  looks,  you  seem 
to  be  prospering,"  he  said  grimly;  "unless 
you  're  in  the  tailor  in'  line,  and  you  're 
only  showin'  off  stock.  What  mout  ye  be 
doing?  " 

"Ye  ain't  bin  long  in  Sacramento,  I 
reckon?"  suggested  Jim,  with  patronizing 
pity. 

"No,  we  only  came  this  morning,"  re 
turned  Hopkins. 

"And  you  ain't  bin  to  the  theatre?  "  con 
tinued  Jim. 

"No." 

"Nor  moved  much  in  —  in  —  gin'ral 
fash'nable  sassiety?" 

"Not  yet,"  interposed  Phoebe,  with  an 
air  of  faint  apology. 

"Nor  seen  any  of  them  large  posters  on 
the  fences,  of  '  The  Prairie  Flower ;  or,  Eed- 
handed  Dick, '  —  three  -  act  play  with  five 
tableaux,  —  just  the  biggest  sensation  out, 


220  SUSY: 

—  runnin'  for  forty  nights,  —  money  turned 
away  every  night,  — standin'  room  only?" 
continued  Jim,  with  prolonged  toleration. 

"No." 

"Well,  /  play  Ked- handed  Dick.  I 
thought  you  might  have  seen  it  and  recog 
nized  me.  All  those  people  over  there," 
darkly  indicating  the  long  table,  "know me. 
A  fellow  can't  stand  it,  you  know,  being 
stared  at  by  such  a  vulgar,  low-bred  lot. 
It 's  gettin'  too  fresh  here.  I  '11  have  to 
give  the  landlord  notice  and  cut  the  whole 
hotel.  They  don't  seem  to  have  ever  seen 
a  gentleman  and  a  professional  before." 

"Then  you're  a  play-actor  now?"  said 
the  farmer,  in  a  tone  which  did  not,  how 
ever,  exhibit  the  exact  degree  of  admiration 
which  shone  in  Phoebe's  eyes. 

"For  the  present,"  said  Jim,  with  lofty 
indifference.  "You  see  I  was  in  —  in  part 
nership  with  McClosky,  the  manager,  and 
I  didn't  like  the  style  of  the  chump  that 
was  doin'  Ked -handed  Dick,  so  I  offered 
to  take  his  place  one  night  to  show  him  how. 
And  by  Jinks!  the  audience,  after  that 
night,  would  n't  let  anybody  else  play  it,  — 
wouldn't  stand  even  the  biggest,  highest- 
priced  stars  in  it!  I  reckon,"  he  added 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  221 

gloomily,  "I'll  have  to  run  the  darned 
thing  in  all  the  big  towns  in  Calif  orny,  —  if 
I  don't  have  to  go  East  with  it  after  all,  just 
for  the  business.  But  it 's  an  awful  grind 
on  a  man,  —  leaves  him  no  time,  along  of  the 
invitations  he  gets,  and  what  with  being 
run  after  in  the  streets  and  stared  at  in  the 
hotels  he  don't  get  no  privacy.  There  's 
men,  and  women,  too,  over  at  that  table, 
that  just  lie  in  wait  for  me  here  till  I  come, 
and  don't  lift  their  eyes  off  me.  I  wonder 
they  don't  bring  their  opery -glasses  with 
them." 

Concerned,  sympathizing,  and  indignant, 
poor  Phoebe  turned  her  brown  head  and 
honest  eyes  in  that  direction.  But  because 
they  were  honest,  they  could  not  help  ob 
serving  that  the  other  table  did  not  seem 
to  be  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  the 
distinguished  impersonator  of  Red-handed 
Dick.  Perhaps  he  had  been  overheard. 

"Then  that  was  the  reason  ye  didn't 
come  back  to  your  location.  I  always 
guessed  it  was  because  you  'd  got  wind  of 
the  smash -up  down  there,  afore  we  did," 
said  Hopkins  grimly. 

"What  smash-up?"  asked  Jim,  with 
slightly  resentful  quickness. 


222  SUSY: 

"Why,  the  smash -up  of  the  Sisters' 
title,  —  did  n't  you  hear  that  ?  " 

There  was  a  slight  movement  of  relief 
and  a  return  of  gloomy  hauteur  in  Jim's 
manner. 

"No,  we  don't  know  much  of  what  goes 
on  in  the  cow  counties,  up  here." 

"Ye  mout,  considerin'  it  concerns  some 
o'  your  friends,"  returned  Hopkins  dryly. 
"For  the  Sisters'  title  went  smash  as  soon 
as  it  was  known  that  Pedro  Valdez  —  the 
man  as  started  it  —  had  his  neck  broken 
outside  the  walls  o'  Robles  Rancho;  and 
they  do  say  as  this  yer  Brant,  your  friend, 
had  suthin'  to  do  with  the  breaking  of  it, 
though  it  was  laid  to  the  ghost  of  old  Pey 
ton.  Anyhow,  there  was  such  a  big  skeer 
that  one  of  the  Greaser  gang,  who  thought 
he  'd  seen  the  ghost,  being  a  Papist,  to  save 
his  everlasting  soul  went  to  the  priest  and 
confessed.  But  the  priest  would  n't  give 
him  absolution  until  he  'd  blown  the  hull 
thing,  and  made  it  public.  And  then  it 
turned  out  that  all  the  dockyments  for  the 
title,  and  even  the  custom-house  paper, 
were  forged  by  Pedro  Valdez,  and*  put  on 
the  market  by  his  confederates.  And  that 's 
just  where  your  friend,  Clarence  Brant, 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  223 

comes  in,  for  he  had  bought  up  the  whole 
title  from  them  fellers.  Now,  either,  as 
some  say,  he  was  in  the  fraud  from  the  be- 
ginnin',  and  never  paid  anything,  or  else  he 
was  an  all-fired  fool,  and  had  parted  with 
his  money  like  one.  Some  allow  that  the 
reason  was  that  he  was  awfully  sweet  on 
Mrs.  Peyton's  adopted  daughter,  and  ez  the 
parents  did  n't  approve  of  him,  he  did  this 
so  as  to  get  a  holt  over  them  by  the  prop 
erty.  But  he  's  a  ruined  man,  anyway, 
now;  for  they  say  he  's  such  a  darned  fool 
that  he  's  goin'  to  pay  for  all  the  improve 
ments  that  the  folks  who  bought  under  him 
put  into  the  land,  and  that  '11  take  his  last 
cent.  I  thought  I  'd  tell  you  that,  for  I 
suppose  you  've  lost  a  heap  in  your  improve 
ments,  and  will  put  in  your  claim?  " 

"I  reckon  I  put  nearly  as  much  into  it  as 
Clar  Brant  did,"  said  Jim  gloomily,  "but  I 
ain't  goin'  to  take  a  cent  from  him,  or  go 
back  on  him  now." 

The  rascal  could  not  resist  this  last  men 
dacious  opportunity,  although  he  was  per 
fectly  sincere  in  his  renunciation,  touched 
in  his  sympathy,  and  there  was  even  a  film 
of  moisture  in  his  shifting  eyes. 

Phoebe  was  thrilled  with  the  generosity  of 


224  SU8T: 

this  noble  being,  who  could  be  unselfish 
even  in  his  superior  condition.  She  added 
softly :  — 

"And  they  say  that  the  girl  did  not  care 
for  him  at  all,  but  was  actually  going  to  run 
off  with  Pedro,  when  he  stopped  her  and 
sent  for  Mrs.  Peyton." 

To  her  surprise,  Jim's  face  flushed  vio 
lently. 

"It 's  all  a  dod-blasted  lie,"  he  said,  in  a 
thick  stage  whisper.  "It's  only  the  hog- 
wash  them  Greasers  and  Pike  County  galoots 
ladle  out  to  each  other  around  the  stove  in 
a  county  grocery.  But,"  recalling  himself 
loftily,  and  with  a  tolerant  wave  of  his  be- 
diamonded  hand,  "wot  kin  you  expect  from 
one  of  them  cow  counties?  They  ain't  sat 
isfied  till  they  drive  every  gentleman  out  of 
the  darned  gopher -holes  they  call  their 
'kentry.'" 

In  her  admiration  of  what  she  believed  to 
be  a  loyal  outburst  for  his  friend,  Phoebe 
overlooked  the  implied  sneer  at  her  provin 
cial  home.  But  her  father  went  on  with  a 
perfunctory,  exasperating,  dusty  aridity :  — 

"That  mebbee  ez  mebbee,  Mr.  Hooker, 
but  the  story  down  in  our  precinct  goes  that 
she  gave  Mrs.  Peyton  the  slip,  —  chucked 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  225 

up  her  situation  as  adopted  darter,  and  went 
off  with  a  queer  sort  of  a  cirkiss  woman,  — 
one  of  her  own  kin,  and  I  reckon  one  of 
her  own  kind." 

To  this  Mr.  Hooker  offered  no  further 
reply  than  a  withering  rebuke  of  the  waiter, 
a  genteel  abstraction,  and  a  lofty  change  of 
subject.  He  pressed  upon  them  two  tickets 
for  the  performance,  of  which  he  seemed  to 
have  a  number  neatly  clasped  in  an  india- 
rubber  band,  and  advised  them  to  come 
early.  They  would  see  him  after  the  per 
formance  and  sup  together.  He  must  leave 
them  now,  as  he  had  to  be  punctually  at 
the  theatre,  and  if  he  lingered  he  should 
be  pestered  by  interviewers.  He  withdrew 
under  a  dazzling  display  of  cuff  and  white 
handkerchief,  and  with  that  inward  swing 
of  the  arm  and  slight  bowiness  of  the  leg 
generally  recognized  in  his  profession  as  the 
lounging  exit  of  high  comedy. 

The  mingling  of  awe  and  an  uneasy  sense 
of  changed  relations  which  that  meeting 
with  Jim  had  brought  to  Phoebe  was  not 
lessened  when  she  entered  the  theatre  with 
her  father  that  evening,  and  even  Mr.  Hop 
kins  seemed  to  share  her  feelings.  The 
theatre  was  large,  and  brilliant  in  decora- 


226  SUSY: 

tion,  the  seats  were  well  filled  with  the  same 
heterogeneous  mingling  she  had  seen  in  the 
dining-room  at  the  Placer  Hotel,  but  in  the 
parquet  were  some  fashionable  costumes  and 
cultivated  faces.  Mr.  Hopkins  was  not 
altogether  so  sure  that  Jim  had  been  "only 
gassing."  But  the  gorgeous  drop  curtain, 
representing  an  allegory  of  Californian 
prosperity  and  abundance,  presently  up- 
rolled  upon  a  scene  of  Western  life  almost 
as  striking  in  its  glaring  unreality.  From 
a  rose-clad  English  cottage  in  a  subtropical 
landscape  skipped  "Rosalie,  the  Prairie 
Flower."  The  briefest  of  skirts,  the  most 
unsullied  of  stockings,  the  tiniest  of  slip 
pers,  and  the  few  diamonds  that  glittered 
on  her  fair  neck  and  fingers,  revealed  at 
once  the  simple  and  unpretending  daughter 
of  the  American  backwoodsman.  A  tumult 
of  delighted  greeting  broke  from  the  au 
dience.  The  bright  color  came  to  the  pink, 
girlish  cheeks,  gratified  vanity  danced  in 
her  violet  eyes,  and  as  she  piquantly  bowed 
her  acknowledgments,  this  great  breath  of 
praise  seemed  to  transfigure  and  possess  her. 
A  very  young  actor  who  represented  the 
giddy  world  in  a  straw  hat  and  with  an  ef 
feminate  manner  was  alternately  petted  and 


A  8TOEY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  227 

girded  at  by  her  during  the  opening  exposi 
tion  of  the  plot,  until  the  statement  that  a 
"dark  destiny"  obliged  her  to  follow  her 
uncle  in  an  emigrant  train  across  the  plains 
closed  the  act,  apparently  extinguished 
him,  and  left  her  the  central  figure.  So 
far,  she  evidently  was  the  favorite.  A  sin 
gular  aversion  to  her  crept  into  the  heart 
of  Phoebe. 

But  the  second  act  brought  an  Indian 
attack  upon  the  emigrant  train,  and  here 
"Rosalie"  displayed  the  archest  heroism 
and  the  pinkest  and  most  distracting  self- 
possession,  in  marked  contrast  to  the  giddy 
worldling  who,  having  accompanied  her 
apparently  for  comic  purposes  best  known 
to  himself,  cowered  abjectly  under  wagons, 
and  was  pulled  ignominiously  out  of  straw, 
until  Red  Dick  swept  out  of  the  wings  with 
a  chosen  band  and  a  burst  of  revolvers  and 
turned  the  tide  of  victory.  Attired  as  a 
picturesque  combination  of  the  Neapolitan 
smuggler,  river-bar  miner,  and  Mexican 
vacquero,  Jim  Hooker  instantly  began  to 
justify  the  plaudits  that  greeted  him  and 
the  most  sanguinary  hopes  of  the  audience. 
A  gloomy  but  fascinating  cloud  of  gun 
powder  and  dark  intrigue  from  that  moment 
hung  about  the  stage. 


228  SUSY: 

Yet  in  this  sombre  obscuration  Rosalie 
had  passed  a  happy  six  months,  coming  out 
with  her  character  and  stockings  equally 
unchanged  and  unblemished,  to  be  rewarded 
with  the  hand  of  Red  Dick  and  the  discov 
ery  of  her  father,  the  governor  of  New 
Mexico,  as  a  white-haired,  but  objectionable 
vacquero,  at  the  fall  of  the  curtain. 

Through  this  exciting  performance  Phoebe 
sat  with  a  vague  and  increasing  sense  of 
loneliness  and  distrust.  She  did  not  know 
that  Hooker  had  added  to  his  ordinary  in 
ventive  exaggeration  the  form  of  dramatic 
composition.  But  she  had  early  detected 
the  singular  fact  that  such  shadowy  outlines 
of  plot  as  the  piece  possessed  were  evidently 
based  on  his  previous  narrative  of  his  own 
experiences,  and  the  saving  of  Susy  Peyton 
—  by  himself!  There  was  the  episode  of 
their  being  lost  on  the  plains,  as  he  had  al 
ready  related  it  to  her,  with  the  addition  of 
a  few  years  to  Susy's  age  and  some  vivid 
picturesqueness  to  himself  as  Red  Dick. 
She  was  not,  of  course,  aware  that  the  part 
of  the  giddy  worldling  was  Jim's  own  con 
ception  of  the  character  of  Clarence  But 
what,  even  to  her  provincial  taste,  seemed 
the  extravagance  of  the  piece,  she  felt,  in 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  229 

some  way,  reflected  upon  the  truthfulness 
of  the  story  she  had  heard.  It  seemed  to 
be  a  parody  on  himself,  and  in  the  laughter 
which  some  of  the  most  thrilling  points  pro 
duced  in  certain  of  the  audience,  she  heard 
an  echo  of  her  own  doubts.  But  even  this 
she  could  have  borne  if  Jim's  confidence 
had  not  been  given  to  the  general  public ;  it 
was  no  longer  hers  alone,  she  shared  it  with 
them.  And  this  strange,  bold  girl,  who 
acted  with  him, — the  "Blanche  Belville" 
of  the  bills,  —  how  often  he  must  have  told 
her  the  story,  and  yet  how  badly  she  had 
learned  it!  It  was  not  her  own  idea  of  it, 
nor  of  him.  In  the  last  extravagant  scene 
she  turned  her  weary  and  half -shamed  eyes 
from  the  stage  and  looked  around  the  the 
atre.  Among  a  group  of  loungers  by  the 
wall  a  face  that  seemed  familiar  was  turned 
towards  her  own  with  a  look  of  kindly  and 
sympathetic  recognition.  It  was  the  face  of 
Clarence  Brant.  When  the  curtain  fell, 
and  she  and  her  father  rose  to  go,  he  was 
at  their  side.  He  seemed  older  and  more 
superior  looking  than  she  had  ever  thought 
him  before,  and  there  was  a  gentle  yet  sad 
wisdom  in  his  eyes  and  voice  that  comforted 
her  even  while  it  made  her  feel  like  crying. 


230  SUSY: 

"You  are  satisfied  that  no  harm  has  come 
to  our  friend,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Of 
course  you  recognized  him?  " 

"Oh,  yes;  we  met  him  to-day,"  said 
Phoabe.  Her  provincial  pride  impelled  her 
to  keep  up  a  show  of  security  and  indiffer 
ence.  "We  are  going  to  supper  with  him." 

Clarence  slightly  lifted  his  brows. 

"You  are  more  fortunate  than  I  am,"  he 
said  smilingly.  "I  only  arrived  here  at 
seven,  and  I  must  leave  at  midnight." 

Phoebe  hesitated  a  moment,  then  said 
with  affected  carelessness :  — 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  young  girl 
who  plays  with  him?  Do  you  know  her? 
Who  is  she?" 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  and  then  said, 
with  some  surprise :  — 

"Did  he  not  tell  you?" 

"No." 

"She  was  the  adopted  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Peyton, — Miss  Susan  Silsbee,"  he  said 
gravely. 

"Then  she  did  run  away  from  home  as 
they  said,"  said  Phoebe  impulsively. 

"Not  exactly  as  they  said,"  said  QJarence 
gently.  "She  elected  to  make  her  home 
with  her  aunt,  Mrs.  McClosky,  who  is  the 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  231 

wife  of  the  manager  of  this  theatre,  and  she 
adopted  the  profession  a  month  ago.  As 
it  now  appears  that  there  was  some  infor 
mality  in  the  old  articles  of  guardianship, 
Mrs.  Peyton  would  have  been  powerless  to 
prevent  her  from  doing  either,  even  if  she 
had  wished  to." 

The  infelicity  of  questioning  Clarence 
regarding  Susy  suddenly  flashed  upon  the 
forgetful  Phoebe,  and  she  colored.  Yet,  al 
though  sad,  he  did  not  look  like  a  rejected 
lover. 

"Of  course,  if  she  is  here  with  her  own 
relatives,  that  makes  all  the  difference,"  she 
said  gently.  "It  is  protection." 

"Certainly,"  said  Clarence. 

"And,"  continued  Phoebe  hesitatingly, 
"  she  is  playing  with  —  with  —  an  old  friend 
—  Mr.  Hooker!" 

"That  is  quite  proper,  too,  considering 
their  relations,"  said  Clarence  tolerantly. 

"I  —  don't  —  understand,"  stammered 
Phoebe. 

The  slightly  cynical  smile  on  Clarence's 
face  changed  as  he  looked  into  Phoebe's 
eyes. 

"I  've  just  heard  that  they  are  married," 
he  returned  gently. 


232  SUSY: 


CHAPTER   XII. 

NOWHERE  had  the  long  season  of  flowers 
brought  such  glory  as  to  the  broad  plains 
and  slopes  of  Robles  Rancho.  By  some 
fortuitous  chance  of  soil,  or  flood,  or  drift 
ing  pollen,  the  three  terraces  had  each  taken 
a  distinct  and  separate  blossom  and  tint  of 
color.  The  straggling  line  of  corral,  the 
crumbling  wall  of  the  old  garden,  the  out 
lying  chapel,  and  even  the  brown  walls  of 
the  casa  itself,  were  half  sunken  in  the  tall 
racemes  of  crowding  lupines,  until  from  the 
distance  they  seemed  to  be  slowly  settling 
in  the  profundity  of  a  dark-blue  sea.  The 
second  terrace  was  a  league-long  flow  of 
gray  and  gold  daisies,  in  which  the  cattle 
dazedly  wandered  mid-leg  deep.  A  perpet 
ual  sunshine  of  yellow  dandelions  lay  upon 
the  third.  The  gentle  slope  to  the  dark- 
green  canada  was  a  broad  cataract  of  crim 
son  poppies.  Everywhere  where  water  had 
stood,  great  patches  of  color  had  taken  its 
place.  It  seemed  as  if  the  rains  had  ceased 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  233 

only  that  the  broken  heavens  might   drop 
flowers. 

Never  before  had  its  beauty  —  a  beauty 
that  seemed  built  upon  a  cruel,  youthful, 
obliterating  forgetfulness  of  the  past  — 
struck  Clarence  as  keenly  as  when  he  had 
made  up  his  mind  that  he  must  leave  the 
place  forever.  For  the  tale  of  his  mis 
chance  and  ill-fortune,  as  told  by  Hopkins, 
was  unfortunately  true.  When  he  discov 
ered  that  in  his  desire  to  save  Peyton's 
house  by  the  purchase  of  the  Sisters'  title 
he  himself  had  been  the  victim  of  a  gigantic 
fraud,  he  accepted  the  loss  of  the  greater 
part  of  his  fortune  with  resignation,  and 
was  even  satisfied  by  the  thought  that  he 
had  at  least  effected  the  possession  of  the 
property  for  Mrs.  Peyton.  But  when  he 
found  that  those  of  his  tenants  who  had 
bought  under  him  had  .acquired  only  a  du 
bious  possession  of  their  lands  and  no  title, 
he  had  unhesitatingly  reimbursed  them  for 
their  improvements  with  the  last  of  his  cap 
ital.  Only  the  lawless  Gilroy  had  good- 
humoredly  declined.  The  quiet  acceptance 
of  the  others  did  not,  unfortunately,  pre 
clude  their  settled  belief  that  Clarence  had 
participated  in  the  fraud,  and  that  even  now 


234  SUSY: 

his  restitution  was  making  a  dangerous  pre 
cedent,  subversive  of  the  best  interests  of 
the  State,  and  discouraging  to  immigration. 
Some  doubted  his  sanity.  Only  one,  struck 
with  the  sincerity  of  his  motive,  hesitated 
to  take  his  money,  with  a  look  of  commis 
eration  on  his  face. 

"Are  you  not  satisfied?"  asked  Clarence, 
smiling. 

"Yes,  but"  — 

"But  what?" 

"Nothin'.  Only  I  was  thinkin'  that  a 
man  like  you  must  feel  awful  lonesome  in 
Calforny!" 

Lonely  he  was,  indeed ;  but  his  loneliness 
was  not  the  loss  of  fortune  nor  what  it 
might  bring.  Perhaps  he  had  never  fully 
realized  his  wealth ;  it  had  been  an  accident 
rather  than  a  custom  of  his  life,  and  when 
it  had  failed  in  the  only  test  he  had  made 
of  its  power,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  only 
sentimentally  regretted  it.  It  was  too  early 
yet  for  him  to  comprehend  the  veiled  bless 
ings  of  the  catastrophe  in  its  merciful  dis 
ruption  of  habits  and  ways  of  life ;  his  lone 
liness  was  still  the  hopeless  solitude  "left  by 
vanished  ideals  and  overthrown  idols.  He 
was  satisfied  that  he  had  never  cared  for 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  235 

Susy,  but  he  still  cared  for  the  belief  that 
he  had. 

After  the  discovery  of  Pedro's  body  that 
fatal  morning,  a  brief  but  emphatic  inter 
view  between  himself  and  Mrs.  McClosky 
had  followed.  He  had  insisted  upon  her 
immediately  accompanying  Susy  and  him 
self  to  Mrs.  Peyton  in  San  Francisco. 
Horror-stricken  and  terrified  at  the  catas 
trophe,  and  frightened  by  the  strange  looks 
of  the  excited  servants,  they  did  not  dare  to 
disobey  him.  He  had  left  them  with  Mrs. 
Peyton  in  the  briefest  preliminary  inter 
view,  during  which  he  spoke  only  of  the 
catastrophe,  shielding  the  woman  from  the 
presumption  of  having  provoked  it,  and 
urging  only  the  importance  of  settling  the 
question  of  guardianship  at  once.  It  was 
odd  that  Mrs.  Peyton  had  been  less  dis 
turbed  than  he  imagined  she  would  be  at 
even  his  charitable  version  of  Susy's  un 
faithfulness  to  her;  it  even  seemed  to  him 
that  she  had  already  suspected  it.  But  as 
he  was  about  to  withdraw  to  leave  her  to 
meet  them  alone,  she  had  stopped  him  sud 
denly. 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?" 
It  was  his  first  interview  with  her  since 


236  SUSY: 

the  revelation  of  his  own  feelings.  He  looked 
into  the  pleading,  troubled  eyes  of  the  wo 
man  he  now  knew  he  had  loved,  and  stam 
mered  :  — 

"You  alone  can  judge.  Only  you  must 
remember  that  one  cannot  force  an  affec 
tion  any  more  than  one  can  prevent  it." 

He  felt  himself  blushing,  and,  conscious 
of  the  construction  of  his  words,  he  even 
fancied  that  she  was  displeased. 

"Then  you  have  no  preference?  "  she  said, 
a  little  impatiently. 

"None." 

She  made  a  slight  gesture  with  her  hand 
some  shoulders,  but  she  only  said,  "  I  should 
have  liked  to  have  pleased  you  in  this,"  and 
turned  coldly  away.  He  had  left  without 
knowing  the  result  of  the  interview;  but  a 
few  days  later  he  received  a  letter  from  her 
stating  that  she  had  allowed  Susy  to  return 
to  her  aunt,  and  that  she  had  resigned  all 
claims  to  her  guardianship. 

"It  seemed  to  be  a  foregone  conclusion," 
she  wrote;  "and  although  I  cannot  think 
such  a  change  will  be  for  her  permanent 
welfare,  it  is  her  present  wish,  ajid  who 
knows,  indeed,  if  the  change  will  be  per 
manent?  I  have  not  allowed  the  legal 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  237 

question  to  interfere  with  my  judgment, 
although  her  friends  must  know  that  she 
forfeits  any  claim  upon  the  estate  by  her 
action ;  but  at  the  same  time,  in  the  event 
of  her  suitable  marriage,  I  should  try  to 
carry  out  what  I  believe  would  have  been 
Mr.  Peyton's  wishes." 

There  were  a  few  lines  of  postscript :  "  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  change  would  leave 
you  more  free  to  consult  your  own  wishes  in 
regard  to  continuing  your  friendship  with 
Susy,  and  upon  such  a  footing  as  may 
please  you.  I  judge  from  Mrs.  McClosky's 
conversation  that  she  believed  you  thought 
you  were  only  doing  your  duty  in  reporting 
to  me,  and  that  the  circumstances  had  not 
altered  the  good  terms  in  which  you  all 
three  formerly  stood." 

Clarence  had  dropped  the  letter  with  a 
burning  indignation  that  seemed  to  sting 
his  eyes  until  a  scalding  moisture  hid  the 
words  before  him.  What  might  not  Susy 
have  said  ?  What  exaggeration  of  his  affec 
tion  was  she  not  capable  of  suggesting  ?  He 
recalled  Mrs.  McClosky,  and  remembered 
her  easy  acceptance  of  him  as  Susy's  lover. 
What  had  they  told  Mrs.  Peyton?  What 
must  be  her  opinion  of  his  deceit  towards 


238  SUSY: 

herself?  It  was  hard  enough  to  bear  this 
before  he  knew  he  loved  her.  It  was  in 
tolerable  now !  And  this  is  what  she  meant 
when  she  suggested  that  he  should  renew 
his  old  terms  with  Susy;  it  was  for  him 
that  this  ill-disguised,  scornful  generosity 
in  regard  to  Susy's  pecuniary  expectations 
was  intended.  What  should  he  do?  He 
would  write  to  her,  and  indignantly  deny 
any  clandestine  affection  for  Susy.  But 
could  he  do  that,  in  honor,  in  truthfulness? 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  write  and  confess 
all  ?  Yes,  —  everything. 

Fortunately  for  his  still  boyish  impulsive 
ness,  it  was  at  this  time  that  the  discovery 
of  his  own  financial  ruin  came  to  him.  The 
inquest  on  the  body  of  Pedro  Valdez  and 
the  confession  of  his  confidant  had  revealed 
the  facts  of  the  fraudulent  title  and  forged 
testamentary  documents.  Although  it  was 
correctly  believed  that  Pedro  had  met  his 
death  in  an  escapade  of  gallantry  or  intrigue, 
the  coroner's  jury  had  returned  a  verdict  of 
"accidental  death,"  and  the  lesser  scandal 
was  lost  in  the  wider,  far-spreading  disclos 
ure  of  fraud.  When  he  had  resolved  to 
assume  all  the  liabilities  of  his  purchase,  he 
was  obliged  to  write  to  Mrs.  Peyton  and 


A  STORY    OF  THE  PLAINS.  239 

confess  his  ruin.     But  he  was  glad  to  re 
mind  her  that  it  did  not  alter  her  status  or 
security ;  he  had  only  given  her  the  posses 
sion,  and  she  would  revert  to  her  original 
and  now  uncon tested    title.     But  as  there 
was  now  no  reason  for  his  continuing  the 
stewardship,    and  as  he  must   adopt   some 
profession  and  seek  his  fortune  elsewhere, 
he  begged  her  to  relieve  him  of  his  duty. 
Albeit  written  with  a  throbbing  heart  and 
suffused  eyes,  it  was  a  plain,  business-like, 
and  practical  letter.     Her  reply  ^was  equally 
cool  and  matter  of  fact.     She  was  sorry  to 
hear  of  his  losses,   although  she  could  not 
agree   with  him  that  they  could   logically 
sever  his  present  connection  with  the  rancho, 
or  that,  placed  upon  another  and  distinctly 
business  footing,  the  occupation  would  not 
be  as  remunerative  to  him  as  any  other. 
But,   of  course,  if  he  had  a  preference  for 
some  more  independent  position,  that  was 
another  question,  although  he  would  forgive 
her  for  using  the  privilege  of  her  years  to 
remind  him  that  his  financial  and  business 
success  had  not  yet  justified  his   indepen 
dence.     She  would  also  advise  him  not  to 
decide  hastily,  or,  at  least,  to  wait  until  she 
had  again  thoroughly  gone  over  her  hus- 


240  SUSY: 

band's  papers  with  her  lawyer,  in  reference 
to  the  old  purchase  of  the  Sisters'  title,  and 
the  conditions  under  which  it  was  bought. 
She  knew  that  Mr.  Brant  would  not  refuse 
this  as  a  matter  of  business,  nor  would  that 
friendship,  which  she  valued  so  highly,  allow 
him  to  imperil  the  possession  of  the  rancho 
by  leaving  it  at  such  a  moment.  As  soon 
as  she  had  finished  the  examination  of  the 
papers,  she  would  write  again.  Her  letter 
seemed  to  leave  him  no  hope,  if,  indeed,  he 
had  ever  indulged  in  any.  It  was  the  prac 
tical  kindliness  of  a  woman  of  business, 
nothing  more.  As  to  the  examination  of 
her  husband's  papers,  that  was  a  natural 
precaution.  He  alone  knew  that  they  would 
give  no  record  of  a  transaction  which  had 
never  occurred.  He  briefly  replied  that  his 
intention  to  seek  another  situation  was  un 
changed,  but  that  he  would  cheerfully  await 
the  arrival  of  his  successor.  Two  weeks 
passed.  Then  Mr.  Sanderson,  Mrs.  Pey 
ton's  lawyer,  arrived,  bringing  an  apologetic 
note  from  Mrs.  Peyton.  She  was  so  sorry 
her  business  was  still  delayed,  but  as  she 
had  felt  that  she  had  no  right  to  detain  him 
entirely  at  Robles,  she  had  sent  to  Mr.  San 
derson  to  temporarily  relieve  him,  that  he 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  241 

might  be  free  to  look  around  him  or  visit 
San  Francisco  in  reference  to  his  own  busi 
ness,  only  extracting  a  promise  from  him 
that  he  would  return  to  Robles  to  meet  her 
at  the  end  of  the  week,  before  settling  upon 
anything. 

The  bitter  smile  with  which  Clarence  had 
read  thus  far  suddenly  changed.  Some 
mysterious  touch  of  unbusiness-like  but  wo 
manly  hesitation,  that  he  had  never  noticed 
in  her  previous  letters,  gave  him  a  faint 
sense  of  pleasure,  as  if  her  note  had  been 
perfumed.  He  had  availed  himself  of  the 
offer.  It  was  on  this  visit  to  Sacramento 
that  he  had  accidentally  discovered  the  mar 
riage  of  Susy  and  Hooker. 

"It 's  a  great  deal  better  business  for  her 
to  have  a  husband  in  the  'profesh  '  if  she  's 
agoin'  to  stick  to  it,"  said  his  informant, 
Mrs.  McClosky,  "and  she  's  nothing  if  she 
ain't  business  and  profesh,  Mr.  Brant.  I 
never  see  a  girl  that  was  born  for  the  stage 
—  yes,  you  might  say  jess  cut  out  o'  the 
boards  of  the  stage  —  as  that  girl  Susy  is ! 
And  that 's  jest  what 's  the  matter;  and  you 
know  it,  and  /know  it,  and  there  you  are !  " 

It  was  with  these  experiences  that  Clar 
ence  was  to-day  reentering  the  wooded  and 


242  SUSY: 

rocky  gateway  of  the  rancho  from  the  high 
road  of  the  Canada  ;  but  as  he  cantered  up 
the  first  slope,  through  the  drift  of  scarlet 
poppies  that  almost  obliterated  the  track, 
and  the  blue  and  yellow  blooms  of  the  ter 
races  again  broke  upon  his  view,  he  thought 
only  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  pleasure  in  this 
changed  aspect  of  her  old  home.  She  had 
told  him  of  it  once  before,  and  of  her  de 
light  in  it;  and  he  had  once  thought  how 
happy  he  should  be  to  see  it  with  her. 

The  servant  who  took  his  horse  told  him 
that  the  senora  had  arrived  that  morning 
from  Santa  Inez,  bringing  with  her  the  two 
Senoritas  Hernandez  from  the  rancho  of 
Los  Cane j  os,  and  that  other  guests  were 
expected.  And  there  was  the  Senor  San 
derson  and  his  Reverence  Padre  Esteban. 
Truly  an  affair  of  hospitality,  the  first  since 
the  padron  died.  Whatever  dream  Clar 
ence  might  have  had  of  opportunities  for 
confidential  interview  was  rudely  dispelled. 
Yet  Mrs.  Peyton  had  left  orders  to  be  in 
formed  at  once  of  Don  Clarencio's  arrival. 

As  he  crossed  the  patio  and  stepped  upon 
the  corridor  he  fancied  he  already  detected 
in  the  internal  arrangements  the  subtle  in 
fluence  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  taste  and  the  inde- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  243 

finable  domination  of  the  mistress.  For  an 
instant  he  thought  of  anticipating  the  ser 
vant  and  seeking  her  in  the  boudoir,  but 
some  instinct  withheld  him,  and  he  turned 
into  the  study  which  he  had  used  as  an  office. 
It  was  empty ;  a  few  embers  glimmered  on 
the  hearth.  At  the  same  moment  there  was 
a  light  step  behind  him,  and  Mrs.  Peyton 
entered  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 
She  was  very  beautiful.  Although  paler 
and  thinner,  there  was  an  odd  sort  of  ani 
mation  about  her,  so  unlike  her  usual  repose 
that  it  seemed  almost  feverish. 

"I  thought  we  could  talk  together  a  few 
moments  before  the  guests  arrive.  The 
house  will  be  presently  so  full,  and  my 
duties  as  hostess  commence." 

"  I  was  —  about  to  seek  you  —  in  —  in  the 
boudoir,"  hesitated  Clarence. 

She  gave  an  impatient  shiver. 

"  Good  heavens,  not  there !  I  shall  never 
go  there  again.  I  should  fancy  every  time 
I  looked  out  of  the  window  that  I  saw  the 
head  of  that  man  between  the  bars.  No! 
lam  only  thankful  that  I  wasn't  here  at 
the  time,  and  that  I  can  keep  my  remem 
brance  of  the  dear  old  place  unchanged." 
She  checked  herself  a  little  abruptly,  and 


244  SUSY: 

then  added  somewhat  irrelevantly  but  cheer 
fully,  "Well,  you  have  been  away?  What 
have  you  done?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Clarence. 

"Then  you  have  kept  your  promise,"  she 
said,  with  the  same  nervous  hilarity. 

"I  have  returned  here  without  making 
any  other  engagement,"  he  said  gravely; 
"but  I  have  not  altered  my  determination." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  again,  or,  as 
it  seemed,  the  skin  of  her  tightly  fitting 
black  dress  above  them,  with  the  sensitive 
shiver  of  a  highly  groomed  horse,  and  moved 
to  the  hearth  as  if  for  warmth ;  put  her  slim, 
slippered  foot  upon  the  low  fender,  drawing, 
with  a  quick  hand,  the  whole  width  of  her 
skirt  behind  her  until  it  clingingly  accented 
the  long,  graceful  curve  from  her  hip  to 
her  feet.  All  this  was  so  unlike  her  usual 
fastidiousness  and  repose  that  he  was  struck 
by  it.  With  her  eyes  on  the  glowing  em 
bers  of  the  hearth,  and  tentatively  advan 
cing  her  toe  to  its  warmth  and  drawing  it 
away,  she  said :  — 

"  Of  course,  you  must  please  yourself.  I 
am  afraid  I  have  no  right  except  that  of 
habit  and  custom  to  keep  you  here ;  and  you 
know,"  she  added,  with  an  only  half -with- 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  245 

held  bitterness,  "that  they  are  not  always 
very  effective  with  young  people  who  prefer 
to  have  the  ordering  of  their  own  lives. 
But  I  have  something  still  to  tell  you  before 
you  finally  decide.  I  have,  as  you  know, 
been  looking  over  my — over  Mr.  Peyton's 
papers  very  carefully.  Well,  as  a  result,  I 
find,  Mr.  Brant,  that  there  is  no  record 
whatever  of  his  wonderfully  providential 
purchase  of  the  Sisters'  title  from  you;  that 
he  never  entered  into  any  written  agreement 
with  you,  and  never  paid  you  a  cent;  and 
that,  furthermore,  his  papers  show  me  that 
he  never  even  contemplated  it ;  nor,  indeed, 
even  knew  of  your  owning  the  title  when 
he  died.  Yes,  Mr.  Brant,  it  was  all  to  your 
foresight  and  prudence,  and  your  generosity 
alone,  that  we  owe  our  present  possession 
of  the  rancho.  When  you  helped  us  into 
that  awful  window,  it  was  your  house  we 
were  entering ;  and  if  it  had  been  you,  and 
not  those  wretches,  who  had  chosen  to  shut 
the  doors  on  us  after  the  funeral,  we  could 
never  have  entered  here  again.  Don't  deny 
it,  Mr.  Brant.  I  have  suspected  it  a  long 
time,  and  when  you  spoke  of  changing  your 
position,  I  determined  to  find  out  if  it 
was  n't  1  who  had  to  leave  the  house  rather 


246  SU8Y: 

than  you.  One  moment,  please.  And  I 
did  find  out,  and  it  was  I.  Don't  speak, 
please,  yet.  And  now,"  she  said,  with  a 
quick  return  to  her  previous  nervous  hilar 
ity,  "knowing  this,  as  you  did,  and  know 
ing,  too,  that  I  would  know  it  when  I  ex 
amined  the  papers,  —  don't  speak,  I  'm  not 
through  yet,  — don't  you  think  that  it  was 
just  a  little  cruel  for  you  to  try  to  hurry  me, 
and  make  me  come  here  instead  of  your 
coming  to  me  in  San  Francisco,  when  I  gave 
you  leave  for  that  purpose  ?  " 

"But,  Mrs.  Peyton,"  gasped  Clarence. 

"Please  don't  interrupt  me,"  said  the 
lady,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  imperiousness, 
"for  in  a  moment  I  must  join  my  guests. 
When  I  found  you  wouldn't  tell  me,  and 
left  it  to  me  to  find  out,  I  could  only  go 
away  as  I  did,  and  really  leave  you  to  con 
trol  what  I  believed  was  your  own  property. 
And  I  thought,  too,  that  I  understood  your 
motives,  and,  to  be  frank  with  you,  that 
worried  me ;  for  I  believed  I  knew  the  dis 
position  and  feelings  of  a  certain  person 
better  than  yourself." 

" One  moment, "  broke  out  ClarencE,  "you 
must  hear  me,  now.  Foolish  and  misguided 
as  that  purchase  may  have  been,  I  swear  to 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  247 

you  I  had  only  one  motive  in  making  it,  — 
to  save  the  homestead  for  you  and  your  hus 
band,  who  had  been  my  first  and  earliest 
benefactors.  What  the  result  of  it  was, 
you,  as  a  business  woman,  know;  your 
friends  know ;  your  lawyer  will  tell  you  the 
same.  You  owe  me  nothing.  I  have  given 
you  nothing  but  the  repossession  of  this 
property,  which  any  other  man  could  have 
done,  and  perhaps  less  stupidly  than  I  did. 
I  would  not  have  forced  you  to  come  here 
to  hear  this  if  I  had  dreamed  of  your  sus 
picions,  or  even  if  I  had  simply  understood 
that  you  would  see  me  in  San  Francisco  as 
I  passed  through." 

"Passed  through?  Where  were  you  go 
ing?  "  she  said  quickly. 

"To  Sacramento." 

The  abrupt  change  in  her  manner  startled 
him  to  a  recollection  of  Susy,  and  he 
blushed.  She  bit  her  lips,  and  moved 
towards  the  window. 

"Then  you  saw  her?"  she  said,  turning 
suddenly  towards  him.  The  inquiry  of  her 
beautiful  eyes  was  more  imperative  than  her 
speech. 

Clarence  recognized  quickly  what  he 
thought  was  his  cruel  blunder  in  touching 


248  SUSY: 

\ 

the  half -healed  wound  of  separation.  But 
he  had  gone  too  far  to  be  other  than  per 
fectly  truthful  now. 

"Yes;  I  saw  her  on  the  stage,"  he  said, 
with  a  return  of  his  boyish  earnestness; 
"and  I  learned  something  which  I  wanted 
you  to  first  hear  from  me.  She  is  married, 
—  and  to  Mr.  Hooker,  who  is  in  the  same 
theatrical  company  with  her.  But  I  want 
you  to  think,  as  I  honestly  do,  that  it  is  the 
best  for  her.  She  has  married  in  her  pro 
fession,  which  is  a  great  protection  and  a 
help  to  her  success,  and  she  has  married  a 
man  who  can  look  lightly  upon  certain  qual 
ities  in  her  that  others  might  not  be  so 
lenient  to.  His  worst  faults  are  on  the  sur 
face,  and  will  wear  away  in  contact  with  the 
world,  and  he  looks  up  to  her  as  his  supe 
rior.  I  gathered  this  from  her  friend,  for 
I  did  not  speak  with  her  myself;  I  did  not 
go  there  to  see  her.  But  as  I  expected  to 
be  leaving  you  soon,  I  thought  it  only  right 
that  as  I  was  the  humble  means  of  first 
bringing  her  into  your  life,  I  should  bring 
you  this  last  news,  which  I  suppose  takes 
her  out  of  it  forever.  Only  I  wanlTyou  to 
believe  that  you  have  nothing  to  regret,  and 
that  she  is  neither  lost  nor  unhappy." 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  249 

The  expression  of  suspicious  inquiry  on 
her  face  when  he  began  changed  gradually 
to  perplexity  as  he  continued,  and  then  re 
laxed  into  a  faint,  peculiar  smile.  But  there 
was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  that  pain, 
wounded  pride,  indignation,  or  anger,  that 
he  had  expected  to  see  upon  it. 

"That  means,  I  suppose,  Mr.  Brant,  that 
you  no  longer  care  for  her?" 

The  smile  had  passed,  yet  she  spoke  now 
with  a  half -real,  half -affected  archness  that 
was  also  unlike  her. 

"It  means,"  said  Clarence  with  a  white 
face,  but  a  steady  voice,  "that  I  care  for 
her  now  as  much  as  I  ever  cared  for  her,  no 
matter  to  what  folly  it  once  might  have  led 
me.  But  it  means,  also,  that  there  was  no 
time  when  I  was  not  able  to  tell  it  to  you  as 
frankly  as  I  do  now  "  — 

"One  moment,  please,"  she  interrupted, 
and  turned  quickly  towards  the  door.  She 
opened  it  and  looked  out.  "I  thought  they 
were  calling  me,  —  and  —  I  —  I  —  must  go 
now,  Mr.  Brant.  And  without  finishing 
my  business  either,  or  saying  half  I  had 
intended  to  say.  But  wait "  —  she  put  her 
hand  to  her  head  in  a  pretty  perplexity, 
"it's  a  moonlight  night,  and  I'll  propose 


250 


SUSY: 


after  dinner  a  stroll  in  the  gardens,  and  you 
can  manage  to  walk  a  little  with  me."  She 
stopped  again,  returned,  said,  "It  was  very 
kind  of  you  to  think  of  me  at  Sacramento," 
held  out  her  hand,  allowed  it  to  remain  for 
an  instant,  cool  but  acquiescent,  in  his 
warmer  grasp,  and  with  the  same  odd  youth  - 
fulness  of  movement  and  gesture  slipped 
out  of  the  door. 

An  hour  later  she  was  at  the  head  of  her 
dinner  table,  serene,  beautiful,  and  calm, 
in  her  elegant  mourning,  provokingly  inac 
cessible  in  the  sweet  deliberation  of  her  wid 
owed  years ;  Padre  Esteban  was  at  her  side 
with  a  local  magnate,  who  had  known  Pey 
ton  and  his  wife,  while  Donna  Rosita  and 
a  pair  of  liquid-tongued,  childlike  senoritas 
were  near  Clarence  and  Sanderson.  To  the 
priest  Mrs.  Peyton  spoke  admiringly  of  the 
changes  in  the  rancho  and  the  restoration 
of  the  Mission  Chapel,  and  together  they 
had  commended  Clarence  from  the  level  of 
their  superior  passionless  reserve  and  years. 
Clarence  felt  hopelessly  young  and  hope 
lessly  lonely ;  the  naive  prattle  of  the  young 
girls  beside  him  appeared  infantine.  ~  In  his 
abstraction,  he  heard  Mrs.  Peyton  allude  to 
the  beauty  of  the  night,  and  propose  that 

7 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  251 

after  coffee  and  chocolate  the  ladies  should 
put  on  their  wraps  and  go  with  her  to  the 
old  garden.  Clarence  raised  his  eyes ;  she 
was  not  looking  at  him,  but  there  was  a 
slight  consciousness  in  her  face  that  was  not 
there  before,  and  the  faintest  color  in  her 
cheek,  still  lingering,  no  doubt,  from  the 
excitement  of  conversation. 

It  was  a  cool,  tranquil,  dewless  night 
when  they  at  last  straggled  out,  mere  black 
and  white  patches  in  the  colorless  moonlight. 
The  brilliancy  of  the  flower-hued  landscape 
was  subdued  under  its  passive,  pale  auster 
ity  ;  even  the  gray  and  gold  of  the  second 
terrace  seemed  dulled  and  confused.  At 
any  other  time  Clarence  might  have  lingered 
over  this  strange  effect,  but  his  eyes  followed 
only  a  tall  figure,  in  a  long  striped  bur 
nous,  that  moved  gracefully  beside  the  sou- 
taned  priest.  As  he  approached,  it  turned 
towards  him. 

"Ah!  here  you  are.  I  just  told  Father 
Esteban  that  you  talked  of  leaving  to-mor 
row,  and  that  he  would  have  to  excuse  me  a 
few  moments  while  you  showed  me  what  you 
had  done  to  the  old  garden." 

She  moved  beside  him,  and,  with  a  hesi 
tation  that  was  not  unlike  a  more  youthful 


252  SUSY: 

timidity,  slipped  her  hand  through  his  arm. 
It  was  for  the  first  time,  and,  without  think 
ing,  he  pressed  it  impulsively  to  his  side. 
I  have  already  intimated  that  Clarence's 
reserve  was  at  times  qualified  by  singular 
directness. 

A  few  steps  carried  them  out  of  hearing; 
a  few  more,  and  they  seemed  alone  in  the 
world.  The  long  adobe  wall  glanced  away 
emptily  beside  them,  and  was  lost ;  the  black 
shadows  of  the  knotted  pear-trees  were  be 
neath  their  feet.  They  began  to  walk  with 
the  slight  affectation  of  treading  the  shad 
ows  as  if  they  were  patterns  on  a  carpet. 
Clarence  was  voiceless,  and  yet  he  seemed 
to  be  moving  beside  a  spirit  that  must  be 
first  addressed. 

But  it  was  flesh  and  blood  nevertheless. 

"  I  interrupted  you  in  something  you  were 
saying  when  I  left  the  office,"  she  said 
quietly. 

"I  was  speaking  of  Susy,"  returned  Clar 
ence  eagerly ;  "  and ' '  — 

"Then  you  needn't  go  on,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Peyton  quickly.  "  I  understand  you, 
and  believe  you.  I  would  rather »talk  of 
something  else.  We  have  not  yet  arranged 
how  I  can  make  restitution  to  you  for  the 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  253 

capital  you  sank  in  saving  this  place.  You 
will  be  reasonable,  Mr.  Brant,  and  not  leave 
me  with  the  shame  and  pain  of  knowing 
that  you  ruined  yourself  for  the  sake  of  your 
old  friends.  For  it  is  no  more  a  sentimen 
tal  idea  of  mine  to  feel  in  this  way  than  it  is 
a  fair  and  sensible  one  for  you  to  imply  that 
a  mere  quibble  of  construction  absolves  me 
from  responsibility.  Mr.  Sanderson  him 
self  admits  that  the  repossession  you  gave 
us  is  a  fair  and  legal  basis  for  any  arrange 
ment  of  sharing  or  division  of  the  property 
with  you,  that  might  enable  you  to  remain 
here  and  continue  the  work  you  have  so  well 
begun.  Have  you  no  suggestion,  or  must 
it  come  from  me,  Mr.  Brant?  " 

"Neither.     Let  us  not  talk  of  that  now." 

She  did  not  seem  to   notice  the  boyish 

doggedness  of  his  speech,  except  so  far  as  it 

might  have  increased  her  inconsequent  and 

nervously  pitched  levity. 

"Then  suppose  we  speak  of  the  Misses 
Hernandez,  with  whom  you  scarcely  ex 
changed  a  word  at  dinner,  and  whom  I 
invited  for  you  and  your  fluent  Spanish. 
They  are  charming  girls,  even  if  they  are  a 
little  stupid.  But  what  can  I  do?  If  I  am 
to  live  here,  I  must  have  a  few  young  people 


254  SUSY: 

around  me,  if  only  to  make  the  place  cheer 
ful  for  others.  Do  you  know  I  have  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  Miss  Rogers,  and  have 
asked  her  to  visit  me.  I  think  she  is  a  good 
friend  of  yours,  although  perhaps  she  is  a 
little  shy.  What 's  the  matter?  You  have 
nothing  against  her,  have  you?  " 

Clarence  had  stopped  short.  They  had 
reached  the  end  of  the  pear-tree  shadows. 
A  few  steps  more  would  bring  them  to  the 
fallen  south  wall  of  the  garden  and  the  open 
moonlight  beyond,  but  to  the  right  an  olive 
alley  of  deeper  shadow  diverged. 

"No,"  he  said,  with  slow  deliberation; 
"I  have  to  thank  Mary  Rogers  for  having 
discovered  something  in  me  that  I  have 
been  blindly,  foolishly,  and  hopelessly  strug 
gling  with." 

"And,  pray,  what  was  that?"  said  Mrs. 
Peyton  sharply. 

"That  I  love  you!" 

Mrs.  Peyton  was  fairly  startled.  The 
embarrassment  of  any  truth  is  apt  to  be  in 
its  eternal  abruptness,  which  no  devious- 
ness  of  tact  or  circumlocution  of  diplomacy 
has  ever  yet  surmounted.  Whatever  had 
been  in  her  heart,  or  mind,  she  was  unpre 
pared  for  this  directness.  The  bolt  had 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  255 

dropped  from  the  sky;  they  were  alone; 
there  was  nothing  between  the  stars  and  the 
earth  but  herself  and  this  man  and  this 
truth;  it  could  not  be  overlooked,  sur 
mounted,  or  escaped  from.  A  step  or  two 
more  would  take  her  out  of  the  garden  into 
the  moonlight,  but  always  into  this  awful 
frankness  of  blunt  and  outspoken  nature. 
She  hesitated,  and  turned  the  corner  into 
the  olive  shadows.  It  was,  perhaps,  more 
dangerous;  but  less  shameless,  and  less 
like  truckling.  And  the  appallingly  direct 
Clarence  instantly  followed. 

"  I  know  you  will  despise  me,  hate  me ; 
and,  perhaps,  worst  of  all,  disbelieve  me; 
but  I  swear  to  you,  now,  that  I  have  always 
loved  you,  —  yes,  always  !  When  first  I 
came  here,  it  was  not  to  see  my  old  play 
mate,  but  you,  for  I  had  kept  the  memory 
of  you  as  I  first  saw  you  when  a  boy,  and 
you  have  always  been  my  ideal.  I  have 
thought  of,  dreamed  of,  worshiped,  and 
lived  for  no  other  woman.  Even  when  I 
found  Susy  again,  grown  up  here  at  your 
side;  even  when  I  thought  that  I  might, 
with  your  consent,  marry  her,  it  was  that  I 
might  be  with  you  always ;  that  I  might  be 
a  part  of  your  home,  your  family,  and  have 


256  SUSY: 

a  place  with  her  in  your  heart ;  for  it  was 
you  I  loved,  and  you  only.  Don't  laugh 
at  me,  Mrs.  Peyton,  it  is  the  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  I  am  telling  you.  God  help 
me!" 

If  she  only  could  have  laughed,  —  harsh 
ly,  ironically,  or  even  mercifully  and  kindly ! 
But  it  would  not  come.  And  she  burst 
out:  — 

"I  am  not  laughing.  Good  heavens, 
don't  you  see?  It  is  me  you  are  making 
ridiculous." 

"You  ridiculous?"  he  said  in  a  momen 
tarily  choked,  half -stupefied  voice.  "You 
—  a  beautiful  woman,  my  superior  in  every 
thing,  the  mistress  of  these  lands  where 
I  am  only  steward  —  made  ridiculous,  not 
by  my  presumption,  but  by  my  confession? 
Was  the  saint  you  just  now  admired  in 
Father  Esteban's  chapel  ridiculous  because 
of  the  peon  clowns  who  were  kneeling  be 
fore  it?  " 

"  Hush !     This  is  wicked !     Stop ! " 

She  felt  she  was  now  on  firm  ground,  and 
made  the  most  of  it  in  voice  and  manner. 
She  must  draw  the  line  somewhere,  and  she 
would  draw  it  beween  passion  and  impiety. 

"Not  until  I  have  told  you    all,  and  I 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  257 

must  before  I  leave  you.  I  loved  you  when 
I  came  here,  —  even  when  your  husband 
was  alive.  Don't  be  angry,  Mrs.  Peyton; 
he  would  not,  and  need  not,  have  been  an 
gry;  he  would  have  pitied  the  foolish  boy, 
who,  in  the  very  innocence  and  ignorance 
of  his  passion,  might  have  revealed  it  to  him 
as  he  did  to  everybody  but  one.  And  yet, 
I  sometimes  think  you  might  have  guessed 
it,  had  you  thought  of  me  at  all.  It  must 
have  been  on  my  lips  that  day  I  sat  with 
you  in  the  boudoir.  I  know  that  I  was 
filled  with  it;  with  it  and  with  you;  with 
your  presence,  with  your  beauty,  your  grace 
of  heart  and  mind,  —  yes,  Mrs.  Peyton, 
even  with  your  own  unrequited  love  for 
Susy.  Only,  then,  I  knew  not  what  it 
was." 

"  But  I  think  /  can  tell  you  what  it  was 
then,  and  now,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  recover 
ing  her  nervous  little  laugh,  though  it  died 
a  moment  after  on  her  lips.  "I  remember 
it  very  well.  You  told  me  then  that  /  re 
minded  you  of  your  mother.  Well,  I  am 
not  old  enough  to  be  your  mother,  Mr. 
Brant,  but  I  am  old  enough  to  have  been, 
and  might  have  been,  the  mother  of  your 
wife.  That  was  what  you  meant  then ;  that 


258  SUSY: 

is  what  you  mean  now.  I  was  wrong  to  ac 
cuse  you  of  trying  to  make  me  ridiculous. 
I  ask  your  pardon.  Let  us  leave  it  as  it 
was  that  day  in  the  boudoir,  as  it  is  now. 
Let  me  still  remind  you  of  your  mother,  — 
I  know  she  must  have  been  a  good  woman  to 
have  had  so  good  a  son,  —  and  when  you 
have  found  some  sweet  young  girl  to  make 
you  happy,  come  to  me  for  a  mother's  bless 
ing,  and  we  will  laugh  at  the  recollection 
and  misunderstanding  of  this  evening.'' 

Her  voice  did  not,  however,  exhibit  that 
exquisite  maternal  tenderness  which  the 
beatific  vision  ought  to  have  called  up,  and 
the  persistent  voice  of  Clarence  could  not 
be  evaded  in  the  shadow. 

"I  said  you  reminded  me  of  my  mother," 
he  went  on  at  her  side,  "because  I  knew 
her  and  lost  her  only  as  a  child.  She  never 
was  anything  to  me  but  a  memory,  and  yet 
an  ideal  of  all  that  was  sweet  and  lovable  in 
woman.  Perhaps  it  was  a  dream  of  what 
she  might  have  been  when  she  was  as  young 
in  years  as  you.  If  it  pleases  you  still  to 
misunderstand  me,  it  may  please  you  also 
to  know  that  there  is  a  reminder  of  Her  even 
in  this.  I  have  no  remembrance  of  a  word 
of  affection  from  her,  nor  a  caress;  I  have 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  259 

been  as  hopeless  in  my  love  for  her  who  was 
my  mother,  as  of  the  woman  I  would  make 
my  wife." 

"But  you  have  seen  no  one,  you  know  no 
one,  you  are  young,  you  scarcely  know  your 
own  self!  You  will  forget  this,  you  will 
forget  me  !  And  if  —  if  —  I  should  —  listen 
to  you,  what  would  the  world  say,  what 
would  you  yourself  say  a  few  years  hence  ? 
Oh,  be  reasonable.  Think  of  it,  —  it  would 
be  so  wild,  —  so  mad !  so  —  so  —  utterly 
ridiculous ! " 

In  proof  of  its  ludicrous  quality,  two  tears 
escaped  her  eyes  in  the  darkness.  But 
Clarence  caught  the  white  flash  of  her  with 
drawn  handkerchief  in  the  shadow,  and  cap 
tured  her  returning  hand.  It  was  trem 
bling,  but  did  not  struggle,  and  presently 
hushed  itself  to  rest  in  his. 

"I  'm  not  only  a  fool  but  a  brute,"  he 
said  in  a  lower  voice.  "Forgive  me.  I 
have  given  you  pain,  —  you,  for  whom  I 
would  have  died." 

They  had  both  stopped.  He  was  still 
holding  her  sleeping  hand.  His  arm  had 
stolen  around  the  burnous  so  softly  that  it 
followed  the  curves  of  her  figure  as  lightly 
as  a  fold  of  the  garment,  and  was  presum- 


260  SUSY: 

ably  unfelt.  Grief  has  its  privileges,  and 
suffering  exonerates  a  questionable  situa 
tion.  In  another  moment  her  fair  head 
might  have  dropped  upon  his  shoulder.  But 
an  approaching  voice  uprose  in  the  adjoining 
broad  allee.  It  might  have  been  the  world 
speaking  through  the  voice  of  the  lawyer 
Sanderson. 

"Yes,  he  is  a  good  fellow,  and  an  intel 
ligent  fellow,  too,  but  a  perfect  child  in  his 
experience  of  mankind." 

They  both  started,  but  Mrs.  Peyton's 
hand  suddenly  woke  up  and  grasped  his 
firmly.  Then  she  said  in  a  higher,  but 
perfectly  level  tone :  — 

"Yes,  I  think  with  you  we  had  better 
look  at  it  again  in  the  sunlight  to-morrow. 
But  here  come  our  friends ;  they  have  prob 
ably  been  waiting  for  us  to  join  them  and 
go  in." 

The  wholesome  freshness  of  early  morn 
ing  was  in  the  room  when  Clarence  awoke, 
cleared  and  strengthened.  His  resolution 
had  been  made.  He  would  leave  the  rancho 
that  morning,  to  enter  the  world  again  and 
seek  his  fortune  elsewhere.  This  was  only 
right  to  her,  whose  future  it  should  never  be 


A  STORY  OF  THE  PLAINS.  261 

said  he  had  imperiled  by  his  folly  and  inex 
perience  ;  and  if,  in  a  year  or  two  of  struggle 
he  could  prove  his  right  to  address  her  again, 
he  would  return.  He  had  not  spoken  to  her 
since  they  had  parted  in  the  garden,  with 
the  grim  truths  of  the  lawyer  ringing  in  his 
ears,  but  he  had  written  a  few  lines  of  fare 
well,  to  be  given  to  her  after  he  had  left. 
He  was  cairn  in  his  resolution,  albeit  a  little 
pale  and  hollow-eyed  for  it. 

He  crept  downstairs  in  the  gray  twilight 
of  the  scarce-awakened  house,  and  made  his 
way  to  the  stables.  Saddling  his  horse,  and 
mounting,  he  paced  forth  into  the  crisp 
morning  air.  The  sun,  just  risen,  was  every 
where  bringing  out  the  fresh  color  of  the 
flower-strewn  terraces,  as  the  last  night's 
shadows,  which  had  hidden  them,  were 
slowly  beaten  back.  He  cast  a  last  look  at 
the  brown  adobe  quadrangle  of  the  quiet 
house,  just  touched  with  the  bronzing  of  the 
sun,  and  then  turned  his  face  towards  the 
highway.  As  he  passed  the  angle  of  the 
old  garden  he  hesitated,  but,  strong  in  his 
resolution,  he  put  the  recollection  of  last 
night  behind  him,  and  rode  by  without  rais 
ing  his  eyes. 

"Clarence!" 


262  SUSY: 

It  was  her  voice.  He  wheeled  his  horse. 
She  was  standing  behind  the  grille  in  the 
old  wall  as  he  had  seen  her  standing  on  the 
day  he  had  ridden  to  his  rendezvous  with 
Susy.  A  Spanish  mania  was  thrown  over 
her  head  and  shoulders,  as  if  she  had  dressed 
hastily,  and  had  run  out  to  intercept  him 
while  he  was  still  in  the  stable.  Her  beau 
tiful  face  was  pale  in  its  black-hooded  re 
cess,  and  there  were  faint  circles  around  her 
lovely  eyes. 

"You  were  going  without  saying  'good- 
by  ' !  "  she  said  softly. 

She  passed  her  slim  white  hand  between 
the  grating.  Clarence  leaped  to  the  ground, 
caught  it,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  But 
he  did  not  let  it  go. 

"No!  no!  "she  said,  struggling  to  with 
draw  it.  "It  is  better  as  it  is  —  as  —  as 
you  have  decided  it  to  be.  Only  I  could 
not  let  you  go  thus,  —  without  a  word. 
There  now,  —  go,  Clarence,  go.  Please ! 
Don't  you  see  I  am  behind  these  bars? 
Think  of  them  as  the  years  that  separate  us, 
my  poor,  dear,  foolish  boy.  Think  of  them 
as  standing  between  us,  growing  closer, 
heavier,  and  more  cruel  and  hopeless  as  the 
years  go  on." 


A  STORY   OF  THE  PLAINS.  263 

Ah,  well !  they  had  been  good  bars  a  hun 
dred  and  fifty  years  ago,  when  it  was  thought 
as  necessary  to  repress  the  innocence  that 
was  behind  them  as  the  wickedness  that  was 
without.  They  had  done  duty  in  the  con 
vent  at  Santa  Inez,  and  the  monastery  of 
Santa  Barbara,  and  had  been  brought  hither 
in  Governor  Micheltorrenas'  time  to  keep 
the  daughters  of  Robles  from  the  insidious 
contact  of  the  outer  world,  when  they  took 
the  air  in  their  cloistered  pleasance.  Gui 
tars  had  tinkled  against  them  in  vain,  and 
they  had  withstood  the  stress  and  storm  of 
love  tokens.  But,  like  many  other  things 
which  have  had  their  day  and  time,  they  had 
retained  their  semblance  of  power,  even 
while  rattling  loosely  in  their  sockets,  only 
because  no  one  had  ever  thought  of  putting 
them  to  the  test,  and,  in  the  strong  hand  of 
Clarence,  assisted,  perhaps,  by  the  leaning 
figure  of  Mrs.  Peyton,  I  grieve  to  say  that 
the  whole  grille  suddenly  collapsed,  became 
a  frame  of  tinkling  iron,  and  then  clanked, 
bar  by  bar,  into  the  road.  Mrs.  Peyton 
uttered  a  little  cry  and  drew  back,  and  Clar 
ence,  leaping  the  ruins,  caught  her  in  his 
arms. 

For  a  moment  only,  for  she  quickly  with- 


264  SUSY. 

drew  from  them,  and  although  the  morning 
sunlight  was  quite  rosy  on  her  cheeks,  she 
said  gravely,  pointing  to  the  dismantled 
opening :  — 

"I  suppose  you  must  stay  now,  for  you 
never  could  leave  me  here  alone  and  de 
fenseless." 

He  stayed.  And  with  this  fulfillment  of 
his  youthful  dreams  the  romance  of  his  young 
manhood  seemed  to  be  completed,  and  so 
closed  the  second  volume  of  this  trilogy. 
But  what  effect  that  fulfillment  of  youth  had 
upon  his  maturer  years,  or  the  fortunes  of 
those  who  were  nearly  concerned  in  it,  may 
be  told  in  a  later  and  final  chronicle. 


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